


Until Death Do Us Part

by RenderedReversed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (highly) possible Happy Ending, Alternate Universe, Balance of Powers, Betrayal, Dark (Character) Harry, Dark Agenda, Destruction of Worlds, Dimension Travel, Gods, Hatred, Implied/Referenced Sex, Love, Love Triangles, M/M, Mind Games, Obsession, Paganism, Revenge, Time Travel, Yandere Harry Potter, aka mentally unstable!obsessed!Harry, equals!super!duo-ish!Harry&Tom, inspired by Mirai Nikki, not evil!Tom, not evil!sane!Voldemort, still trying to cover all my bases, vote for final pairing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-03 20:18:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 37,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2886242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenderedReversed/pseuds/RenderedReversed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry James Potter and Tom Marvolo Riddle were always meant to be together, maintaining the balance of the world as the Embodiment of Light and the Embodiment of Dark. However, when the balance is mysteriously disrupted, the world is bathed in flames and set on the path to destruction.</p><p>When Tom disappears, Harry leaves the world to its fate and sets on a course to find him, even if it takes traveling through a thousand different dimensions to meet again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Some say the world will end in fire...

**Author's Note:**

> **BY THE WAY IMPORTANT:**
> 
> As you've read from the tags, we have a TMR/HP/LV love triangle going on... and I'll leave it to YOU to decide who wins! (This also ties in with the highly possible happy ending guys. You can choose for no one to win too.) Go ahead and comment which you prefer whenever, and as the story progresses don't think you're stuck--you can CHANGE your vote!
> 
> If I actually get some opinions going on, the pairing will be majority vote. If I don't get any opinions, story probably won't progress very far/maybe a DEAD END/I'll choose whatever fits my fancy. Thanks guys c:

There is fire.

Harry stumbles.

 _There is fire_ , and the world is burning, and there is no one left—the screams, oh the _screams_ have long since faded—no one left but him.

There is so, _so much_ fire.

Harry inhales, and immediately coughs it back up. Because in companion to fire, there was _smoke_. He couldn’t even see the sky anymore. All he knew was the heat pressing in, never quite reaching him but still _there_ , and black smoke so heavy he could hardly see the next three meters ahead. He was in the thick of it, he knew.

“Voldemort,” Harry breathes, “ _Voldemort_. Where are you?”

It is hard to speak. He still shouts the name at the top of his lungs anyway.

“Voldemort!”

The world is burning.

And there is so, so much fire.

He cries for Voldemort until his throat is raw and his voice hoarse.

“I _have_ to find him,” Harry mumbles, “have to. _Must_. He’s still alive. He _has_ to be—” A choked sob leaves his lips.

He doesn’t want the last thing he’d said to the man he loves to be—

To be—

“Voldemort,” Harry murmurs, “ _Tom_. I’ll find you, even if it’s the last thing I do.”

The world is burning. No one could possibly still be alive. And there, in the midst of the fire and the smoke and the ash, the terrible heat and the missing sky, Harry disappears. Because he knows Tom like the back of his hand—the man _will live_ , death is not an option—and the only way to live is to escape.

This world is doomed.

So Harry leaves it, and follows his heart to the next, the name on the tip of his tongue.

“I’ll find you, and nothing will ever separate us again… _Together forever_ , right?”

* * *

Harry straightens, running a hand through his dark locks to rub a few strands between his fingers. His hair is short, the weight on his head light. The robes he wears are plain and black, smelling of smoke and dusted in ash before he thoroughly cleaned them with his magic.

The air is fresh.

The sky is blue.

The clouds are white.

He breathes in.

And it feels _good_.

But first things first. He needs to find Voldemort above all else—surely one existed in this dimension, otherwise he’d never have landed in it—and then he could tell him of his circumstances. Of what happened. And by his reaction, Harry would see if the Embodiment of Dark had landed in this universe. Otherwise, it’ll be off to the next one.

Maybe, if he’s lucky, _this_ time…

No. None of those thoughts, not yet.

If his Tom had made himself home in this universe, Harry will stay with him. He will learn about this new dimension and keep the balance here with Tom. All he wants to do is be with his lover anyway. Living forever—being _eternal_ —is no fun when he’s alone.

 _Tom_.

Something in Harry’s heart pangs, and there is a steady ache there that makes its way up his chest to the base of his throat. He wants to make a sound, _any_ sound, but he’s long since disciplined himself into silence. He’ll find Tom if that’s the last thing he does, even if it takes a million and one dimensions to find him. Tom is his literal other half.

Tom _exists_ for him, and he for Tom.

_There isn’t a need for anything else in this world…_

Harry’s eyes narrow.

“We’ll be together forever,” he sings under his breath, “to-ge-ther, for-e-ver…”

But first, he needs to find him. Harry licks his lips and grins, his expression almost _feral_. “Now, where would I hide if _I_ was a Dark Lord?”

* * *

The cold atmosphere of the room combined with the droning monotone of the report was a terrible combination, Voldemort concludes.

Already five years since obtaining this body and still he finds its vulnerability to the cold a nuisance. His scales prickle and he feels lethargy long settled in his bones. There is nothing more he wants right now but to settle before the fireplace and work on his plans in close comfort privacy, but there are necessities to deal with—such as vital information that his dull Death Eater apparently can't present properly—which forces him to keep the room cold and his Inner Circle attentive.

Some of them have less attention span than they had originally. The Dark Lord restrains from sighing as the presenter finally makes it to his conclusion. He is, of course, dismissed immediately after, and the entirety of his Inner Circle relax, filling the room with their low voices and Bellatrix's cackle.

 _Five years. Five years_ , and they are _still_ stuck exactly where they'd been before. After the death of the Boy-Who-Lived, Dumbledore proved to be an iron fortress in the confines of Hogwarts. The only battle that can take place is one in the Ministry, and that has been going on for far too long. Voldemort knows something needs to happen. Something has to appear, because it is far easier to defend a fearful populace from a high vantage point than conquer it from below.

And it is _now_ , when the Dark Lord is irritable and impatient and near to but never actually desperate that _he_ comes. One could say the perfect timing is, indeed, perfectly planned.

...Then again, no matter what world it is, no matter what position he may hold, Harry Potter is still Harry Potter. Unexpected curses and even unlikelier blessings and all. And the blood that is rightly _Felix Felicis_ rests for no one or thing, even if it _is_ a Dark Lord—no, perhaps _especially if_?

You could say that his arrival, with such impeccable timing, is planned in the way such things not planned just are.

Above the table, a cut appears in the air, the sliver of space that peeked between the slits a harsh black nothingness. At first, no one notices. But as the cut gradually widens, growing bigger and bigger to stretch two meters across, all of the Inner Circle members glance up. Voldemort is intrigued.

And he will continue to be so as a body falls out from the cut and lands in a messy heap of black on the table. Papers flutter off the top and into the air.

Wands are pulled out and pointed in threat at the figure, but he ignores them. Instead, Harry groans. He'd expected the ground, not a table, and casted accordingly—a cushioned, longer fall—but the obstacle ruins those plans. There was a far better entrance in his mind than _this_. Nevertheless, Harry sits up and meets the point of a wand at the bridge of his nose.

"Good thing I don't need glasses anymore," he idly mumbles to himself. "I'd have probably crushed them."

"State who you are and how you've come here," demands Rodolphus Lestrange.

"I don't answer to you." Harry shrugs and pushes away the wooden stick with a nonchalance one does not easily express in the presence of the Dark Lord and his most faithful.

The _crucio_ targeted at his back—courtesy of Bellatrix—is batted away like a fly. Harry smiles as they all back up and form a loose ring around the table. They are ready to duel. This amuses him, because none of them would stand a second should he seriously aim at their necks.

Harry stretches, and fluidly rolls off the table. His robes flow with his movement, settling as he stands to his full height. It isn't much at 5'9", but physical height isn't all there is. His presence is tall and striking, enveloping the room as it diffuses in all directions. Power splashes from him in waves, steady, ebbing and flowing and teasing in its threat. It is playful, like its master. Harry smiles and turns around to face the head of the table, where Voldemort, the only one who has not stood, sits with hands steepled and back resting against his throne.

"Tom!" Harry grins and flounces forward. Wand points follow him but he pays them no mind. "You're here! I finally found you! Thank Salazar you're alright—I hope this world has been kind to you."

The Dark Lord glares at him, but it is a comparably mild one when considering those that make crowds of Death Eaters quake. He wants this stranger to keep his distance, to feel who is superior. His own magic is released, battling against the waves of foreign magic in his domain.

Harry's grin widens, showing off his pearly white teeth. He stops, even though he doesn't need to, and spreads his arms open wide.

"What a greeting, Tom! Have I done something to anger you? Oh, perhaps it's because I'm not calling you your proper name in this dimension. Voldemort, right? That silly little moniker you had eons ago. I'm surprised I still remember it!"

Voldemort is more curious than angry now. His magic should've sent this mysterious creature to his knees, but he still stands tall. Harry locks eyes with him and then Voldemort knows.

He stands. "Harry Potter," the Dark Lord hisses, "I killed you."

"Killed...?" Harry's expression darkens for a moment, but brightens so quickly afterward that no one knows if they actually saw the former. "Oh! You mean _this_ universe's Harry! No wonder my body is the same as it was! How considerate Tom—no, Voldemort! I assure you, _that_ Harry is well and dead. This one—that is, me—is well and alive. Aren't you happy to see me?"

Lord Voldemort did not make it to where he is now by luck. His intelligence, his power, his wit is what has brought him here. But never had he heard proof of other worlds, other universes, and yet here he had quite possibly witnessed said proof! It could be a lie. An elaborate falsification to throw him off, all planned by Dumbledore... But there is a _what if_ present in his mind, his mind that was honed by experience and harsh reality—it is not wise to refuse intuition coming from such a mind.

Voldemort's pause is but two seconds in real time. Just enough to allow the snake to rise within him.

"Come closer," he beckons, a single hand raised and fingers curling. _Your move._

Harry's smile is genuine. He rushes forward, tackles the Dark Lord and wraps his arms about his torso. It is a hug, a personal embrace, and Voldemort allows it—after his yew wand slips into his hand under his sleeve, that is—this is the proof Harry is looking for, and, perhaps completely by mistake, Voldemort has stumbled into it.

Harry thinks he's lucky. He would've killed this Voldemort if he didn't get any proof, because for some reason, he likes this one. Their meeting has lasted a grand five minutes, but Harry likes this one already.

On the other hand...

Voldemort's smirk is reminiscent of a shark. The Inner Circle members, who are rightfully at a loss, recognize the expression of a predator on the hunt and shudder. They are not to get in the way of their Lord, they know that much. Bellatrix even pouts at not getting the chance to torture this strange Harry Potter for taking liberties with her Lord.

"It... truly is you..." Voldemort's voice is soft and sly.

"Of course it is! You know I'd follow you anywhere—I belong to you, after all. Were you looking for me?"

_Are you caught on my hook yet?_

_Is the bait delicious enough for you, Dark Lord?_

"Very hard indeed," Voldemort agrees. _My creature, my light_ , a minuscule voice whispers in the back of his head. The voice is his own.

Voldemort does not notice the supplied information until his mouth has said it. "My light." It sounds undeniably right coming off of his tongue—that this powerful creature is _his_. After another second he recognizes the logic behind the fact that it is Harry Potter.

Harry Potter has always been his. His to possess, his to destroy, his to ruin, his to kill. And he had in this universe... But apparently the him of another dimension found his nemesis to have some use and kept him alive. Voldemort decides he won't ruin the efforts of his other self and will continue the trend—absolute control of Harry Potter.

Harry hides a wide, split-facing grin in the fabric of his robes. "My dark," he replies.

Severus Snape quakes in fear at this new development. Whoever this Harry Potter is, he is undeniably powerful. Enough to rival the Dark Lord. And certainly it is a different Harry Potter, because the one at the Triwizard Tournament—though resourceful—never had the potential to be—to be—

 _Great_.

For the Dark, this is the point of a new beginning.

For Harry, it is simply a continuation of his hunt.

* * *

"Death Eaters!" Harry exclaims with a fascinated gesture of discovery, "It's been awhile since those existed. Let's see... Dumbledore's still alive then?"

"Yes," replies Voldemort as he takes his seat in his office. "I... assume you remember how we defeated him?"

Harry smiles. It appears to be a pleased expression, but in actuality is his indulgent, belittling look. Voldemort only sees the former—and Harry, by how his smile grows softer, knows. It is an expression he has adopted as the Embodiment of Light in his world, honed by assumptions that Light is benevolent and the Embodiment of Dark is merciless. While Tom had, in fact, been merciless most of the time, they had no obligation to fit into the roles most thought they were.

Because the Embodiments are balance. Light or Dark, their values are only as different as the entities that they are. Harry took particular pleasure in punishing those who did not learn from their mistakes—that is, those who were only sorry they were caught.

But now those duties are nonexistent. He is searching for Tom—who _cares_ about keeping the balance? By entering a world that has no Embodiments, Harry has become the Embodiment of Light for this world for the duration of his stay. Although he knows this, he purposely neglects his duties anyway. On one hand, it simply isn't his place to interfere. On the other...

"Of course, Voldemort," Harry confirms. "The after party was a true celebration, remember? We even made a festival of it!" _You won't get information that easily. You'll have to work for it, Dark Lord._

 "Indeed, my light."

No more is said on the subject, but by no means does that mean it is forgotten. Harry's gaze is affectionate, and Voldemort catches a glimpse of it.

"I've been waiting for you, my light," the Dark Lord begins again, "in this world, Dumbledore plays his defense admittedly well without the Boy-Who-Lived. It is possible he is training another 'savior'..."

"That's fine. We'll just kill them both like last time," Harry shrugs. "It's hardly a challenge, as long as we can get to the man."

"He has confined himself to Hogwarts under the excuse of revising the education and focusing on the children of our future," Voldemort sneers. "All documents reach him by his private floo network. The Ministry is half mine and half his."

"But in the end, the throne will be yours, won't it?" In one swift move, Harry perches himself on the edge of the desk. "Dumbledore is old. The public is what you need."

"He'll die a martyr."

"His closet is so dirty though. Is he different in this world or something? You're concerned with something you already have the information to fix," Harry waves his hand to show his flippancy on the subject. Voldemort's expression tightens in response.

_Let the game begin._

"My... _light_ ," the Dark Lord lets the word slide off his tongue in a cold hiss, "what have you gone through, to change you so much?"

Harry tilted his head to the side. "Change?" he asked innocently. "Have I really?"

"You have not always been so... impertinent."

"Are you sure _you're_ not the one who's changed? Has the Voldemort of this world affected your mind more than you know?" Harry's expression is calm. Playful. But his words are pointed. The game goes on, as both sides make up the characters of their play as they go. Harry wonders how far he can push, and Voldemort wonders what type of person the other him was to allow such disrespect.

This Harry Potter is powerful, true. He is useful, possibly. He is loyal, perhaps. But surely Voldemort himself is stronger? Harry Potter is not a Dark or Light Lord. He is nothing, other than the glass canon his aura projects him as.

"I'm certain." Voldemort is close to pulling out his wand and cursing him into submission.

Harry is delighted. He would've been bored with a flat development! The smile that next adorns his face is loving. "I'll trust your word, my dark," he says, hopping off the table, "and I'll be sure to fix my behavior. How appalling! If you hadn't mentioned it, I dare say I wouldn't have noticed at all! Much thanks and my sincerest apologies."

"Good. See that you do."

Harry pauses at the door. "I'll be headed to my rooms now, if you don't mind? Traveling dimensions has exhausted me."

"The house-elves will take you."

He slips out the door on that note. Voldemort had not looked up to watch his departure, and Harry is viciously pleased to know he won that little game. Because had Voldemort been more aware, he would've realized what their relationship is—was. And then he would've known that Harry and Tom never slept in separate rooms, both due to their personality and their possessive natures.

His grin is dark.

If he’d chosen to say something then, that would’ve been a game over.

 _Too soon_.

 _And that’s no good—_ Harry doesn’t want a dull opponent.

Voldemort belittled him—toying with words rather than playing the _game_. Harry figures the Dark Lord’ll learn not to do that again eventually, because now Harry’s sure to make the punishment _not-so-nice_. How are they supposed to play with half a heart in it? They can’t. And that— _that_ simply wouldn’t do. The Dark Lord will become his playmate, or he won’t exist at all.

Because things that didn’t entertain him usually became nuisances, and if there exists anything in the world that the Embodiment of Light would claim to hate across _dimensions_ , it would be nuisances. Pests. Irritants; small pricking needles with no pleasure to derive from.

His grin grows darker still.

A proper playmate must be wholehearted and _invested_ in their every single move—almost like a puppy. Dedicated, loyal, _enthusiastic_ to play with their owners. Harry knows he’ll enjoy making Voldemort into _that_.

Tom is not yet strong enough. Harry licks his lips, imagining the taste of something darkly rich generously slathered on his tongue. He doesn't need anyone but Tom. Anything in his way will be eradicated... But that doesn't mean he won't allow himself some fun beforehand. Being a living deity can be so boring, after all.

It seems like this world is in need of some chaos.

_Come out, come out, wherever you are... How are we to be together if you insist on hiding from me, Tom? I'm rather tired of playing around all the time, but I guess for you I'll persevere somehow._

After all,  _Voldemort_ is hardly boring.

* * *

It is difficult to know where to go from here. Voldemort contemplates the situation as he reclines next to the fireplace. This could be a trap, but what if it isn't? He needs some type of proof, something that can be verified. And yet he does not know.Is it possible for someone to return from the dead?

No... No, it isn't. Voldemort himself never had truly died that one night in 1981. But he knows he killed Potter. He knows. He felt the life leave the boy's body, felt the pulse stop and saw the eyes glaze. Death is not so easily faked, especially in front of a person who has seen and caused many other deaths. Voldemort knows what it looks like, staring at a dying body.

The Boy-Who-Lived is dead. And yet here he is, bloody red scar upon his forehead with bright green eyes and a mysterious affection for the Dark Lord. The situation is insane. Voldemort doesn't want to believe anything, but the only reasonable explanation--relatively, at least--is the excuse that has been presented to him. Alternate dimensions. Parallel universes. Other worlds.

Voldemort inhales sharply. He knew his nemesis far more than Dumbledore had ever given him credit for. And from what he knew of Harry Potter, this new one is so radically different but just enough of the one he killed that their shared identity as the same person cannot be denied.

The fourth year he fought had the same wise eyes, after all.

A long breath leaves him.

Is it possible?

...He needs further proof of the creature's loyalty. Even if Harry Potter is from a different dimension, that still doesn't measure the extent of his obedience. If Voldemort is going to let him live, then he will need to be tamed or already completely submissive. If he is to be a weapon, Voldemort requires nothing short of his Inner Circle's type of loyalty from Harry Potter.

Perhaps it is time to give the Light Lord something to worry about. A bit of chaos...

* * *

"So? What say you to it all?"

"It all what, Rabastan?"

The Lestrange grins. "Oh come now, Barty! You have opinions on everything! Surely you have some sort of input on our Lord's newest... addition."

"Our Lord does as he likes. It isn't my place to question that," Barty replies, uncharacteristically stiff.

"We are our Lord's most faithful. You're our Lord's favorite. You're practically entitled to an opinion, at least to share with your fellows who have less of an extensive knowledge concerning our Lord's thoughts."

"Rabastan!" Barty shouts. It is hopeless though, and he ends up throwing his head back and barking a laugh. The Lestrange smirks in victory, pleased to see the usual Barty Crouch.

"I'm suspicious," Barty admits after a few more moments of jest and laughter. "But I also believe our Lord is even more suspicious than me. We need a catalyst, and Potter might be it... But we still need to be wary in case of a trap. If it isn't a trap, then we very well could win the war with him."

"He's powerful," Rabastan agrees.

"I figure we're getting just the ingredients to test him right now," Barty grinned.

"Makes me wonder how our Lord in whatever universe that Potter is from dealt with him. Seems like something isn't right in his head..."

"Trixie isn't all there either."

"Blacks never have been. Potters, on the other hand—”

"Maybe our Lord made him that way?"

The question gives Rabastan an excuse to pause in his ward casting. His wand stills, despite both his hands still being raised, and he thinks back upon his brother’s wife, who had been insane before, but under the Dark Lord’s tutelage and then the stay in Azkaban—well, to say the least, she had… _flourished_ ever since actively fighting for the Dark side.

If the same happened to Potter—

It is a valid point.

Rabastan’s silence tells all Barty needed to know. They let it sit there, things that they shouldn’t say—things that they _feared_ to say—in the air about them but not from a word out of their mouths. Because honestly, there is something… _horrible_ about Potter’s insanity that is not present in Bellatrix’s. It is not something dark, looming the background, nor is it in his eyes, lost and wild like an animal’s while his speech denies and indeed proves that he _is_  still man.

No. It is something that they can’t quite describe, having never encountered it before. Something that hangs on his frame like a cloak made of the night sky—endless, _ominous_ , with a billion stars glinting in warning of something great and terrible approaching. Something—something—

 _Neither want to admit it. Admitting it would make real the horrors of their minds, so haunting is it that they shudder and flinch at the very thought. Because if it is true with Potter, then what of their Lord? Why does_ it _not cling to their Lord’s figure like an unbearable, permanent stench, for if there was a man before Potter arrived whom they knew to deserve such a thing, it would be their Lord, and the proof of_ that _lied in all their years in his possession with their loyalty._

But it does not. The Dark Lord’s measure of it pales in comparison to Potter’s, who wears it like the latest fashion on the front page of a magazine. There is no such thing upon the Dark Lord, not even the slightest of similarity between the two.

That does not make Potter stronger, of course, certainly not—

“It is as if the Demon walks among man,” Rabastan says suddenly. That is all he can manage to say of it. Barty nods in agreement.

“Demon indeed…”

In all honesty, they are not far off from the truth. An amalgamation of all demons pales in comparison to what Harry Potter actually is, of course, but such a being could also be considered something greater than mere creatures, and so is closer to the level of a Transcendent than a mundane snail is.

But it would take a demon billions of years of summoning chaos in order to match the same deathly taint that covered Harry Potter.

_Just what has he done to be so tainted that not even the Dark Lord can compare?_

…Well, destroying hundreds if not thousands of worlds would be a good place to start.

Harry breaks out into hysterical laughter at the same time that Barty and Rabastan successfully capture Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, and Luna Lovegood.

* * *

 

_Some say the world will end in fire,_

_Some say in ice._

_From what I’ve tasted of desire_

_I hold with those who favor fire._

_But if it had to perish twice,_

_I think I know enough of hate_

_To say that for destruction ice_

_Is also great_

_And would suffice.*_

* * *

_***: __****_Fire and Ice_ , **_ **poem by Robert Frost**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it begins... My first try at (mentally) Dark!Harry! His magic is light oriented in this fic, but his personality is dark definitely yup you saw it. Poor bby wasn't always like this though :(
> 
> Later chapters will address it.................. if I get to them LOL.
> 
> So! Merry belated Christmas and a Happy New Year! And Hanukkah! Or Yule! Winter Solstice! Or whatever you celebrate!


	2. Some say in ice.

_“You have left me to suffer and die in a million and one lives, and each and every time it hurt just as much as the last. However, it will never ellipse the very first time you abandoned me, and for that you shall feel the wrath of my suffering a million and one ways, a million and one nights, a million and one times. And when that is done shall I repeat it again, for if I am to be bound with you now, I shall have you kneel and kiss my feet, beg litanies of mercy, chant trembling pleas of forgiveness before I smite you down once more._

_Together forever, you_ swore _._

_I suppose as the only just one between us, that I shall have to make good on our promise. How nostalgic, isn’t it, Tom? Only this time, I’ll be the cat and you the mouse._

_I wonder… how many ways can I catch you before we reach half an eternity?”_

* * *

“Good morning!”

A shudder trills down the Dark Lord’s spine. Something is terribly _wrong_ about Harry’sgreeting—it is too enthusiastic; bordering on hysterical, for one—but whatever it is, it lasts only a second until it fades from his mind in lieu of the low bow that Harry performs with a flourished wave and sharp movement.

That is... _worse_.

And that’s confusing—half of his mind is pleased by the submissive show, the other displeased and perhaps even _disgusted_. That half of him seems to flinch; a recoil, as if someone so familiar and close became something _ghastly_ and malicious before his very eyes, like a ghost determined to haunt him to the very ends of the earth—and perhaps even past _that_ —

There is the sound of his voice, off in the distance. His _old_ voice—the voice of Tom Riddle’s, not the raspy, high-pitched hiss of Lord Voldemort.

“ _Stand beside me,”_ Tom says, “ _Yes._ This _is your place. Forever by my side—and I at yours. We’ll rule the world together, Harry. Together, it is ours—”_

And then, a different voice cuts in, in a different time and place. It is raw, as if it’d been shouting and screaming for awhile before; its quality is somehow lighter compared to Tom’s, and Voldemort feels like he _should_ know it, but does not. _“The Embodiment of Light bows to no one, and neither shall the Embodiment of Dark! Tom—don’t lose yourself here—become the darkness that dims the burning light, the embodiment of all that pains me to contain—don’t lose yourself here! You’re close… so,_ so _close—”_

“ _Together?_ ” The same voice asks, somewhere else this time—calm, he is calm now, enough to tease and laugh—“ _We have a long time ahead of us. Eternity, I should like to guess. Shall we be together forever then?”_

Tom laughs. _Laughs_. The sound is foreign, even to Voldemort’s ears. “ _I wouldn’t mind it.”_

_“Then together forever we shall be, my dark.”_

_“As you say, my light.”_

—“Fare you well, my dark?”

Voldemort wants to _retch_. “Rise,” he demands, a feeling in the back of his throat forcing out the word more so than any of his personal desires.

“As you wish.” Harry rises from his bow with an exaggerated sweep, but afterward does no more other than stand and smile.

They are alone in his office— _thank Salazar for_ that _mercy_ —so none of his Death Eaters are present to see their early encounter and Voldemort’s momentary loss of focus. Still, it is a mistake the Dark Lord is all too aware of. It is… _unnerving_ that it had happened so easily and quickly. Perhaps he truly _did_ need more rest, if this is what his mental state had come to.

“My dark,” Harry begins again, “You seem a tad… _pale_. Are you well?”

Voldemort keeps his expression blank, though he _does_ level quite the significant stare at him. There is no _possible_ way Voldemort could be paler, for one, and for the other, the lilt in his voice sounds all too _knowing_ for it _not_ to catch attention.

Harry keeps smiling. “So you don’t know! Well, better than nothing. Shall I get the house-elves to fetch you some tea?”

“I thought I told you to _fix_ your behavior.”

“Oh, quite right you did. My… _apologies_. I’m afraid I’m always quite chipper in the mornings. Do forgive me.”

“I think you ask too much of me,” Voldemort hisses, “and it is not proper of those in your station to _ask_ at all.”

“My station?” Harry parrots innocently. “What _ever_ do you _mean_?”

Voldemort finally catches himself at the last possible second. “You simply try my patience is all, my light. Recently I have sent my followers to… _fetch_ a few things, and they just have come back with it—”

“I understand. Your mind is on other things, yes? Well, though I wish I could steal it away for myself, I _do_ understand. We’re in the midst of war again, after all. And one must not be too careless during war.”

“Certainly,” is Voldemort’s curt reply.

“May I do anything for you, then? You _do_ know I dislike seeing you stressed. Say the word and it shall be done, my dark!”

 _“_ …There is… _one_ thing I need you to do…” the Dark Lord begins slowly.

“What is it?”

“There are certain… _people_ that my followers have captured in dire need of an execution… However, Dumbledore being Dumbledore, he has crafted a certain complex magic that surrounds them and protects them from any spell we use. Of course, the Killing Curse would work, however I do find myself… _curious_ to say the least of such magic. You will dissect it for me, my light.”

Harry inclines his head. “It should be of no problem.”

* * *

They arrive at the throne room, where his Death Eaters have formed a ring about the room. Harry frowns at this, but does not comment, instead focusing on maintaining a distance _near_ beside but never quite obvious, which serves a great deal to irritate the Dark Lord. It is a little amusement while he wonders how long it’ll take to make Voldemort ‘step up’ his game.

Half-hearted participants were no fun, in the end. Harry knows this better than anyone else, especially for his _particular_ game.

“Bring them forth.”

Three teenagers are dragged into the room. By the way his aura practically forces everyone onto their knees—sans Harry—Voldemort is quite definitely _furious_. Something has gone wrong, and he wants to know _why_.

“I do recall ordering the capture of _four_ children of the Light. Barty! Rabastan!”

“My Lord,” they both bow, “We have captured Hermione Granger, Ronald Weasley, and Luna Lovegood—we discovered that Neville Longbottom is indeed receiving training to become the new ‘Savior’, and so Dumbledore has secluded him away in some secret training program. None of these three have seen him for several months.”

The listed teenagers look grim and pale at the mention of their missing friend being a target. Voldemort looks amendable to the idea. “Continue.”

“We captured these three under the protection of one Xenophilius Lovegood, Arthur Weasley, and Molly Weasley—after a brief skirmish, we were able to kill them and escape before the rest of the Order arrived.”

“Oh? Three more blood traitors wiped from existence?” the Death Eaters share a nasty laugh, “A fine work, my faithful. I shall ignore your failure with the Longbottom boy, under assurance that it _shall not_ happen again.”

“Of course, my Lord.” Barty and Rabastan bow and retreat back into the half ring of the Inner Circle members, leaving Hermione, Ron, and Luna alone on the too-white marble floor.

“Well, my light? Take your pick. I suppose it doesn’t matter much—you’ll kill them all at the end either way… How about the Lovegood girl first?”

Voldemort, who had not glanced a single time at Harry during the whole conversation, only now turns to look when he hears no reply. He opens his mouth to inquire as to why, but Harry cuts him off. “Have you no respect?” the Embodiment of Light asks slowly, darkly, with restraint curled about his clenched fists and tight in his shoulders. “Have you no _respect_?”

Voldemort narrows his eyes. “ _What_ do you dare say?”

“I _said_ ,” Harry snarls, “ _Have. You. No. Respect_?” He turns, cloak billowing, and marches down the dais to stand between Voldemort and the three prisoners. “Have you no honor? Have you no morality, twisted as it may be? Are you not a _man_?” He takes an exaggerated sweep of the Dark Lord’s body. “Perhaps you are _not_. And in that case, it is _my_ error. But even those less than a man as _you are_ still have their link to Magic, and so I ask again: _are you not a wizard_?”

The Dark Lord’s eyes flash, and before anyone in the room can blink, the yew wand is in his hand and leveled at Harry Potter.

“So the old fool has determined to try and end this war through trickery,” Voldemort laughs, “Well, he should’ve chosen his chess pieces better. _I_ _knew_ you wouldn’t be able to kill your _friends_ —”

“If you think I give one _tit_ about _ginger_ and _squirrel_ over there, your brains have either dulled with the years and you’ve become a fool or you’re not the one I’m searching for,” Harry snaps. “And out of the two, the former is the less likely. Tread very carefully now, for I _dislike_ imposters, and I’ve never been the best at the Mind Arts—I _might just_ rip that head of yours to shreds looking for what I want.”

It takes three seconds for every single Death Eater in the room to have their wands pointed at him.

“It is _one thing_ to be all fun and games, and certainly _another_ to be forgetting and _forsaking_ _the very she who blessed you._ Who blessed _us_! Have you forgotten she who kissed you in the name of Mother Hecate? She who foretold our path of victory? She who stood at the path of our transcendence and wished us luck at the door? Tom!” Harry shouts. “Do you forget our warm affection for her? She who was our favored! She who worshipped us first! What lowly life form have you _become_ to _forget_?!”

Something inside Voldemort quivers.

“Our _first_. She— _she_ —” Harry’s voice tremors with the rage of an earthquake, “She was our _first_. Our most loyal. She built the _first_ temple, became our _first_ priestess, _vowed_ and _swore_ in our name and _believed_ in our divine protection. Our _transcendence_. She spread word of our existence far and wide, gathered followers for us, _tribute_. Sacrifices were made in our name—we were stronger than ever with her on our side. Even if it is not _her_ that stands before us, dare you forget her _soul_? Or is it that you allow _this world’s_ Voldemort to take over your thoughts, Tom? Was he _stronger than you_? _ARE YOU NOT MY DARK?”_

A voice not Voldemort’s—but is, it _is_ and there is no denying that despite how foreign it feels in his throat and on his lips—answers. “I am,” he says hollow, but as if he is too tired, too fatigued to say more, not a sound more is heard, even though Voldemort _knows_ there are more words that his mouth denies him the power to speak.

Harry still looks furious. He opens his mouth to begin his tirade once more, but a soft, nervous voice stops him. “Please,” Luna whispers, “Please, Your Luminosity—I am not _she_. I cannot take the grace and honor of _she_. I _cannot_.”

Turning to her, Harry beckons with a single hand and the restraints around Luna Lovegood dissipates into shining dust. She runs forward, and then drops to her knees a meter away from him, bowing her head in submission. That show is all he needs to see.

“But you _know_. And you would do it all, if the situation calls.”

“But I _have not yet_ ,” Luna argues, submission fading in her voice to become strong and stubborn. “And I perhaps never will. Your Luminosity, my loyalty is to Harry Potter. And if I will die in Harry Potter’s name, so be it. Your Luminosity owes _me_ nothing, nor does His Tenebrosity. I mean no disrespect—but I refuse to live while my friends die in Harry Potter’s name. I… I apologize.”

“It is honor that stays my hand. Will you have me dishonor myself?”

Luna smiles wanly. “Harry is Harry. And no one makes Harry do anything.”

“Then will you make _Tom_ dishonor himself?”

She pauses, turning her head to Voldemort and looking inexplicably _sad_. Her mouth moves, but so slightly and almost like a quiver that Voldemort cannot read her lips—the message remains unknown and unsaid. It is clear— _too_ clear—that she wants to say something; perhaps _needs_ to say something, but will not. Cannot.  And yet her eyes are sad as if she is on the brink of tears looking at him.

“I wish words could solve all the problems in the world,” she finally says, “But they can’t. And we— _I_ have no business trying to force the matter. That is not my role. That is not my place. I am not meant to be a card to be played, or a chess piece to be moved—so this is my punishment for giving my loyalty to someone. This is my punishment for disobeying the laws of the world, for placing myself on the board—” she turns to face Harry, “—and I regret nothing. You will have my loyalty to the end of time—in life and in death. I make no one do anything. I simply ask for a passing without pain—for myself and for them.”

Harry’s eyes turn to Voldemort, molten rage and enveloping darkness in the plume of his pupils. _It isn’t supposed to be this way,_ runs through the Dark Lord’s head. _This is wrong. I cannot explain it—but this is_ wrong _._

“Know that _you_ have done this. Know that it is _you_ —you who have no place here, you that are a speck of _dirt_ upon my shoulder—have done this. You have taken power that is not yours, a title that is not yours, and have done _this_. And I _do not_ , _will not_ pity you.”

Harry raises the palm of his hand, a green orb forming in it, and then in the next second three beams of lightning stretch out from the orb and takes the lives of the three prisoners. Their bodies fall to the floor, heavy and never to rise again. Then the orb turns a sea green—the color of an _Obliviate_ spell—and particles of light fly forth from it to sink into each Death Eater’s head. Each one falls to the floor.

The Embodiment of Light smiles, controlled and twisted. His tone is light again when he speaks, but it is the darkest Voldemort has ever heard it. “Does this satisfy you, my dark? You know I only seek to please you.”

It does not—but there is no tone of mockery in Harry’s voice, only in his words, and _that_ … _that_ he knows is wrong too. Fear, so foreign and familiar at the same time, gradually seeps into Voldemort’s bones.

“…Well done,” he says, because there is nothing proper that he _can_ say, and he knows—past the confusion, past the numbness, past his pride and past his power—that there would be suitable punishment if anything he said was _not_ praise.

Harry’s smile grows even more broken, if that’s even possible.

* * *

_It’s rather easy for my favor to become hatred, you know. And all you have to blame is Tom—how’s that for balance? Two versus one, and now you’re handicapped!_

_Because it’s the game, you see. Once you start playing, you can never stop—not until there’s a winner. Not until you lose—_

_Because I always win._ Especially _if it’s against_ you _, Tom._

 _You think you’d bested me when you_ ran _?_ Oh _no. It’ll take more than_ that _to escape_ me _. You think you could kill me?_ Me _, the Embodiment of Light? Hah! Your pride has made you a fool if you think you could kill your other half without consequence._

_I am not a horcrux to be left and abandoned, Tom._

_I am not a weapon to be disposed of once you realize you’ve little control of it._

_I am the EMBODIMENT OF LIGHT, and you will_ rue _the day you turned your back on_ me _._

 _Oh, but I swear it’s out of_ love _, sweetheart. Nothing will ever get between us again—_ not even yourself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UMMMM.... WAAAIT.... WHAT JUST--BUT--HARRY--NO THAT'S NOT--WAT. SO TOM IS THE BAD GUY?????!!!!
> 
> ...According to Harry, um, well yes. Apparently he's hunting down Tom with vicious glee... But who knows if we can trust him since his mental state is utterly wack. But wait, what if that's because of Tom? Are Rabastan and Barty right (kinda/technically/maybe)?!?!?!?!?!?!
> 
> You're gonna have to just wait and find out :P. I'm eager to find out how many people will switch their votes now... bwahahahahahahaha.
> 
> -
> 
>  **REMEMBER** , you can **CHANGE** your vote for the final pairing at ANY point in the story before the last (9th) chapter! The most recent tally count for final pairing (TMR/HP, LV/HP, TMR/HP/LV 3some, or NO pairing) will be in the comment section as a reply to the most recent comment to someone voting. 
> 
> Thanks guys! It's been immensely enjoyable to watch your interaction in the comments c: With a system like Ao3's, I'm rather disappointed people don't take more advantage of it!


	3. From what I've tasted of desire...

Voldemort sits upon his bed, head cradled in his hands to try and soothe the building ache in his temples. He does not look like a king now—not like a Dark Lord, not like a ruler—but at the moment, he doesn’t _care_. The headache is ever-growing, pounding in his mind like a petulant child, and all he knows now is that something _bigger_ than his war with Dumbledore has entered the stage.

_Why does Harry Potter always bring trouble?_

There is a soft chuckle in the back of his mind at that thought, a weak laugh that could only be described as fond and sad at the same time. There is the weight of memories in it, and yet the lack of strength utterly contradicts that.

Voldemort raises his head.

There is something going on here, and _he_ is in the thick of it.

“ _You are in a very dangerous position now, Lord Voldemort,”_ the same familiarity that had been recurring so often recently says.

“Is that a threat?” Voldemort snarls into the empty room. He glances this way and that, but there is nothing there. No _one_ there. His wand is in his hand before the next beat of breath.

“ _No_ ,” replies the soft, distant voice of Tom Riddle, “ _It is an observation. I do not seek any harm upon you, self that is not myself. In fact, in the state that I’m in as of now—a mere wraith, really—harm to_ you _would certainly bring harm to_ me _. Do you not know yourself enough to know what the situation is from that?”_

It was all very matter-of-fact. All very calm. Light and hollow, perhaps even a tad slow. Voldemort is troubled—he’s never recalled speaking in such a manner, and yet here he is now, speaking with something that claims to be him of the past who uses said tone.

“ _No,”_ Tom Riddle softly repeats, “ _I am not who you were. I am unsure if I am even what you will be—though_ thatis _a closer guess, I suppose. Hark—I grow weak—go to the mirror, and you will see me for what I am.”_

The Dark Lord hesitates, but in the end, he moves. The grace with which he stands and walks forward is hindered by the caution and uncertainty in his shoulders and eyes—no matter how well-controlled he is over his body, there is little that can be done in such a strange situation.

Strange was an understatement.

He stops in front of the mirror.

Before him, instead of his usual snake-like visage that he is accustomed to seeing now—a monstrous form bred to instill fear and terror into his lower ranks—Voldemort sees reflected a tall man, as tall as he is, with an unhealthy shade of pale skin only but a shade darker than his own scales. His hair is short and neat—a dark brown brushed to the side across his forehead.

His eyes are a dark burgundy, dim which contrasted with his unnerving stare. And though his stance and poise is regal, it is empty—weakened, without strength.

He should be weaker than Voldemort—but something inside the Dark Lord flinches and cowers at the sight of him, of Tom Riddle, for he knows it is not his _past_ that stands before him reflected in the glass—it is something entirely different.  And that _something_ holds the same gaze Harry Potter had when he stood before Luna Lovegood that morning—

The gaze of kings.

 _“As a reflection I can talk with little consequence to my strength,”_ Tom explains. “ _I have waited within you for four years, waiting for my powers to recover, and finally I am at the state where I may speak to you as a separate entity. So I warn you now, and advise you to heed my warning. Beware the Embodiment of Light!”_

“The Embodiment of Light…? You mean the Light Lord, Albus Dumbledore—”

“ _No,”_ denies Tom. “ _The Light Lord and Embodiment of Light are two different and separate individuals.”_

“I have never heard of such a title before—”

“ _It is an ancient role,”_ begins Tom, his voice taking on once more the slow, wispy, hollow tone of previous, “ _As old as the universe, but not always filled. The Embodiments are those who have transcended—who have become what they had not been, shed away their previous forms to become something more. They have ascended to the throne of gods, and hold the balance of the planetary body they exist upon.”_

“You can’t _possibly_ mean balance—that is the job of the Lords of Magic—”

“ _I mean only what I say, certainly say what I mean. You ascended to your role as Dark Lord to represent the Dark of your designated area on Earth. You and the Light Lord_ should _maintain the balance, but can you say for certain that is fact? The Lords of Magic are human. The Embodiments are not. You who have passed the test knows the repercussions of imbalance—calamities will reap havoc in the world should the scale tip too far. You know, so you fight. And so have all previous Dark and Light Lords, spurred by their duty—to fight to represent their people.”_

“I know all this,” Voldemort snaps. “Why else am I trying to topple an insane, mentally _unwell_ Light Lord from his place?”

Tom does not react to the Dark Lord’s outburst. His stare remains unamused and unnerving, a glassy emotionless fixture to his face, and only when the Dark Lord completely calms does he speak again. “ _To resolve the flaws of the Lords system, when a pair of Light and Dark Lords rise and prove themselves both powerful and capable, they move through the Trials of Transcendence and become the Embodiment of Dark and Embodiment of Light, forever bound to one another through time and dimension. They are two halves of a whole, two souls that have been welded together. Gods is the easiest label to give them, but not entirely correct. They are eternal beings who, through their very existence, maintain balance._

_When one brings forth calamity, the other brings forth miracles. When one blesses, the other curses. For every vessel of light that is brought into the world, a vessel of dark is born. Through their power, they control all facets of magical balance to keep whole and prosperous the planetary body they guard. Do you understand that significance?”_

“You describe equals. I _have_ no equals—” Voldemort’s voice is harsh and unrelenting, quick as his mind connects all the pieces of the puzzle that was given to him, “—but Harry Potter is the Embodiment of Light—he travels through dimensions searching and searching for—but I _have_ no equal. _You_ , as you are me, _should have no equal_ —but _he is_ —”

Tom waits, motionless.

Voldemort clutches his head, bony fingers pressed against the scales of his crown. “I am the Embodiment of Dark!” he cries, “ _I am who he seeks_! _Harry Potter_ is—”

Tom raises his palm, and the Dark Lord’s voice dies. He finds no sound can leave his mouth, despite how his throat strains and lips move.

“ _You are not the Embodiment of Dark of this world, Lord Voldemort. There exists_ no _Embodiment of Dark of this world—but you must beware. Beware the Embodiment of Light!”_

“Why?!”

Tom, who has been perfectly expressionless and calm in the mirror, suddenly shudders at the question. Voldemort sees his face cringe, as if he had just been shown the most horrible vision of pain and can no longer bear the sight of it. There is a flicker of bottomless sorrow in his eyes, lasting but the brevity of a breath, and then the Dark Lord finds himself instinctively destroying the glass—so horrid is the sight of guilt and regret upon his reflected face that he cannot stand it any longer.

The yew wand hums in his hand at the usage, but Voldemort pays little attention to it. He looks at the floor now scattered with the shards of his mirror, each holding a tiny reflection of his snake visage once more.

There is silence.

For the briefest second, he thinks Tom Riddle will speak to him again through his thoughts, thinks he will hear that horrid, _terrible_ hollow-soft voice again and face the image of emotions long thought to be discarded painted bright upon his being. Voldemort _fears_ , but the moment never comes. Sound never comes.

He opens his mouth and speaks. “Why?”

When there is no reply, the Dark Lord is both relieved and frustrated.

He realizes that he knows nothing of the situation anymore, despite being in the thick of it. Nothing—nothing but one thing—

_Beware the Embodiment of Light._

Voldemort knows he must play the game, and seek to win against a god.

* * *

The next day, Voldemort enters his office not expecting much of anything—but apprehension is still ever-present in his mind.

And for good reason—Harry Potter, the Embodiment of Light, is sitting upon his desk, face a frozen smile as he greets him.

_How did he—_

_The wards are—_

Voldemort blinks. _All-powerful god. Transcendent. Right._

“Good morning, my dark!” he greets, kicking his legs back and forth like a child. “You’re a bit late today, aren’t you?”

There’s something pointed about how… _immaculate_ Harry’s tone and body language is. It is perfectly carefree—perfectly happy-go-lucky, perfectly _perfect_. There are no holes to poke in the way he acts, no little habits he clearly displays that Voldemort has, since his youth, been keen on catching in people. The Dark Lord notes it just now, but accepts that he has been subconsciously aware all along.

He has underestimated his opponent—but now, no longer—

But Harry Potter has the advantage, Voldemort admits. He’s been caught off guard—blind-sided—

What can he say, now that he knows? Now that he knows that he’s _supposed_ to know, but hasn’t all along?

“ _Say nothing,”_ the hollow-soft voice of Tom Riddle murmurs in his thoughts, “ _Watch him, search his face, but not longer than a second.”_

The Dark Lord hesitates, but then, realizing his position now, obeys.

“ _Approach him.”_

Voldemort moves.

“ _Cup his cheek—the farthest away from you—and turn it towards you as if you’ve grabbed his chin instead. Do not hesitate—you may touch him. He has been expecting you to touch him. If you are to live, you must act, and if you are to act, you must act_ well _. You must be the one he is expecting, the one he is searching for, and yet maintain your identity that you are_ not _. And he knows, but you must not allow him a chance to show you that he knows—that would be the end of it.”_

The moment Voldemort turns Harry’s head to face his, the creature’s cheeks blossom with red. The Dark Lord notices immediately that the tense perfection his ‘opponent’ had been carrying has faded, and instead of the wild beast that formerly swirled in his eyes, all that is left now is fond affection— _genuine_ affection.

Voldemort wants to flinch away from the unfamiliar sight, but he doesn’t. He lets nothing show, because Tom Riddle is right. He must act in order to survive, just as he had before during his rise to power— _he_ must be perfect, subtly perfect so that the game is played and played _well_ by both players. He must match Harry Potter’s every move, be aware of all that he can, and be patient.

He must wait until just the right moment, and when that moment comes, he must best the god at his own game.

_Nothing new._

Harry reaches up with both of his hands to gently take hold of Voldemort’s wrist. His fingers are soft and light upon his scales, an oddly pleasing touch, but Tom does not let the Dark Lord forget how dangerous that touch can become. Voldemort does not physically tense, but his mind sharpens its focus.

Nothing comes. Harry leans into the bony hand, nuzzling it in a display of affection.

_“My light,”_

“My light,”

_“Do calm yourself.”_

“Do calm yourself.”

_“You know how I worry when you are unwell.”_

“You know how I worry when you are unwell.”

Voldemort repeats Tom Riddle’s words _exactly_ —using the same tone and intonation, rising and falling on just the right syllables, pausing and dragging and letting the sound echo just a beat more off his tongue in the exact same manner. And once this is done, the Dark Lord looks back and begins to realize—specifically, when he sees the surprised, pleased look on Harry’s face—just _what_ the relationship between Tom Riddle and Harry Potter might be.

“Y-You worry for me?” Harry stutters, and the surprised look fades to give away to the smile in his eyes, “You’re _worried_ for me!”

Harry lets go of Voldemort’s wrist as he stands from his seat on the desk and spins around, light on his feet, creating distance between them as he completes his circle and ends facing the Dark Lord once more. Harry beams, cheeks still pink, and perhaps in order to hide the color, splays both hands across them as his smile grows wide.

“Oh my dark, you make me so _happy_! B-but you don’t have to worry, you know—I-I’m strong! Oh, but you _know_ and you’re worried _still_!”

“ _Of course I would be—you’re very precious to me, after all,”_ Tom replies in his head, and Voldemort repeats it.

Harry lets out a sound of the purest delight and runs forward, tackling the Dark Lord into an embrace. It takes an iron restraint _not_ to curse him on Voldemort’s part, but oddly enough his _opposite_ arm winds around Harry’s waste like something out of _habit_. It’s a funny contradiction—his wand arm is stiff, yew wand frozen in his hand and hidden by his sleeve, and yet his _other_ arm acts as if Harry’s action is completely natural.

 _Expected_ , almost.

“Ah! Wait _right_ here!” The creature darts out of the room before Voldemort can say a word, and Tom weakly chuckles in his head in the same fond affection he had before.

Just as quickly as he leaves, Harry re-enters. A significant stack of parchment paper is in his hands, and this he thrusts at Voldemort with a pleased smile and still-pink cheeks. There is something about it that Tom does not like, but he does not have enough energy left to put it into words and can only settle for letting an ominous feeling diffuse into the Dark Lord’s mind.

“These are?” Voldemort asks even as he takes them and scans over the first page.

“Notes from yesterday, of course,” Harry says completely at ease as if he _hadn’t_ just blown up the other day. “You asked for analysis on the barrier those children had over them, correct? Well, here they are. I figured out they were linked to some sort of object on their person, like a portable ward stone. The reason they were so strong was probably because they had some essences of magic bound to them—Dumbledore probably used it to receive information from whatever situation they’d inevitably get themselves into.”

“For the Greater Good…” the Dark Lord murmurs with a sneer.

“Oh yes. A _necessary_ sacrifice. Well, it isn’t like _I_ can take a moral high ground on _that_ …” Harry laughs. “Or maybe I can. _Which one is worse, I wonder_ … Oh, isn’t this all delightfully despicable, my dark? He’s so much more conniving in _this_ dimension than our original! I admit I’m a bit excited to play with him some more!”

“Are you?” muses Voldemort. He flips to the back of the page, sweeps a glance, and then looks back at Harry who seems eager for some sort of reaction. Because Tom is currently indisposed, he can’t tell him _exactly_ what to do, but Voldemort has a good idea of what to try.

“Well done,” the Dark Lord says softly. He reaches out a hand, cups Harry’s cheek for but a moment, and then lets it fall.

Harry is in a good mood for the rest of the day.

Both the Dark Lord and Tom Riddle know it is just the beginning—it is only the latter that is hesitant to commit to it.

* * *

“Explain, _now_ ,” Voldemort demands as he steps in front of his (now repaired) mirror. The growing familiarity he has with the man reflected before him is unnerving to say the least, but hopefully it’s a sign of his survival in what he assumes is a building death match.

Tom Riddle stares back impassively. “ _What is there to explain?”_

He is one tick away from exploding the glass again. Voldemort grits his teeth and resists. “Everything. What relationship do you have? What’s going on? _Why_ is he searching—why are _you_ running? What _are_ you? What am _I_? Wh—”

“ _I see_.” That’s all Tom says, but it’s enough to stop the barrage of questions.

A second ticks by. Voldemort glares. “Well?”

“ _I was the Embodiment of Dark in our original world; my light’s,”_ Tom begins, hollow-soft voice slow and resigned, “ _We were one. Two halves of a whole. Equals. You frown now, but we were an unstoppable force together, even before we transcended. And we were in love.”_

“Love,” Voldemort sneers, “is a useless emotion for us. I know _you_ know that well. I refuse to believe you.”

“ _You forget this is Harry Potter we speak of. Don’t you know he is the one who breaks all rules? Who is our exception?”_

“He was an easy kill,” the Dark Lord deadpans.

“ _Perhaps in this world, you were lucky. In others, that is not so… More often than not we are locked in a never-ending battle with him, or one of us has won after such, or we co-exist instead. In all of these dimensions, he has been a most…_ persuasive _anomaly in our lives. Doubt all you like, but I do not lie to you. We were in love._ Equally _in love.”_ Tom looks fond. Voldemort wants to break something.

“Then?” the Dark Lord demands impatiently.

“ _Then things went wrong. All wrong—”_ Tom frowns, shakes his head, clears his throat and takes a moment to slowly blink. Voldemort observes that Tom Riddle only ever shows so much bodily expression when broaching this topic—such an ominous sign. Tom calms himself eventually, but his eyes—already dim—are haunted.

“ _I left our world to eliminate a threat. It turned out more complicated than I first assumed—this threat learned the power to travel dimensions, you see. So dimension after dimension, I traveled and destroyed all the incarnations who had obtained this power, or sought to defeat me. I_ did _complete my task, finding the world in which it all originated and destroying that, but it left me weak. You see, the Embodiments cannot be apart from one another for long. It weakens us, and causes us great pain. We are halves of each other. The experience… it is excruciating.”_

Voldemort frowns. If that’s true, then how come the Embodiment of Light isn’t affected?

Tom either chooses to ignore that question or doesn’t hear it at all. “ _So my powers faded. They will never fade completely, but I need time to recuperate, and that’s what I’ve been doing, as you see. There is no Embodiment of Dark in this world even as I exist here because I do not have enough power to claim the position.”_

“Fair enough,” Voldemort says, “That explains why _you’re_ here. What of Harry Potter? What does _he_ seek?”

 _“He is searching for me,”_ Tom agrees. “ _He has sought me for a very long time. I do not know how long it has been, as we travel through time as well as space, but certainly it has been… for a very long time. He is my light, as we call him. Quite literally, as he is my Embodiment of Light and contains all light magic to balance my dark.”_

“Why are you running then?”

Tom hesitates. His burgundy eyes flash some unidentifiable emotion before he nods his head and proceeds to tell “nothing but the truth.” Voldemort doesn’t trust his reflection in the slightest. “ _I was hunting for a long time. Without me, I fear he has… lost his sanity, as you’ve seen. He was different, before. Kinder. Just. He—it was a long time ago.”_

“Why are you running?” Voldemort repeats.

“ _He blames me. I understand why he does—I would too, put in his position. I am guilty. I regret. But he is not the one I love—not the Harry that I fell in love with. He is different now—so, so different. If there was a mirror of the soul, his reflection now compared to his reflection then—there would be no similarity whatsoever. I am not powerful enough yet to take responsibility, but I will. I will, before he can do more harm.”_

The Dark Lord finds something humorous about the sudden steadfastness of his reflection’s face, the dark determination that bled into those burgundy eyes. He laughs—more of a cackle—bitter and mocking. Tom says nothing.

“So you’re the _hero_ now? The _Savior_? Is _Harry bloody Potter_ the _villain_ of the universe? You expect me to believe that _you_ , who is ultimately _me_ , would save the world simply because it is my _responsibility_?”

“ _How is it any different than what you’re doing now?”_

“Cleaning up the trash is truly but a side mission,” the Dark Lord smirks, “How am I to rule a disintegrating world? Moreover, it is not the _world_ I claim to be saving, but _magic_. You and I both know the significance to _that_.”

Tom nods once.

“So?”

“ _We are eternal beings,”_ the once Embodiment of Dark begins, “ _He and I. We cannot simply_ die _. But our existence can be erased. We can be extinguished. But it must be_ both _of us.”_

“You expect me to believe that _I_ would give up immortality for the universe?”

“ _Not you,”_ answers Tom, “ _but_ me _. You have not seen the things I have seen, gone through the things I have gone through. You are not_ bound _to the Embodiment of Light. In the grand scheme of things, you are nothing but another unfortunate soul who has fallen in the path of my light. In the end, think what you like—but know this: I do it not to_ save lives _. I do it not for the universe. You can assume all you like with that.”_

Voldemort takes the rebuke with a loathsome acceptance. He knows part of what his reflection has said is true.

“ _But worry not. If my plan succeeds,_ you will live _. But only if I succeed. It is imperative you beware the Embodiment of Light.”_

“And the Embodiment of Light would have me dead?”

_“After you have served your purpose, yes.”_

“And I will live after I have served _your_ purpose?”

“ _If I win,_ you live _.”_

Voldemort inclines his head. “Fair enough. What is there to do?”

“ _You play the game,”_ Tom’s words are as simple as they are ominous. He gives no hint as to which is more important. “We _play the game. It is us versus him, and if either of us is caught, there is little chance for you to escape with your life. Let not a single action you do from here on out tell him I exist, or that you are not me, or that there is a Lord Voldemort who is not the Embodiment of Dark. He knows, but do not give him hint that you know or that he is right. You will act. I will help you. But I can only assist so much as I am now.”_

“What do I need to know?”

_“Far more than you can ever learn.”_

“If we are to be partners I feel I must say now that I am more than half tempted to _crucio_ you.”

Tom inclines his head. _“Fair enough. But I warn you not to try it. You will not succeed.”_

Voldemort glares. “I _know_ that. Now get on with it. I’m not going to do battle with the Embodiment of Light again _cold_ now that I know what’s going on.”

As they resign themselves to this new turn of events, Tom begins his lesson. “ _Do not shy away nor frown on his affection. Give him affection in return. You are fond—not overly so, but fairly fond still. He will try to trick you with his smiles and his eyes, his genuine love that is true but falsely represented. Meet it with kindness. Exasperation. Never rebuke as if he is a follower. He will do as you say, but ask. He will be_ more than willing _to do what you ask, but receive it with gratitude._

_Between you and him, you may be the Lord, he may seem the Follower, but you are equals. Be aware of that. Think of it as this: he is a powerful tool should you use him as one, but as all tools are, can be turned against their users. Ignore the problems of the past that you learn and act as if only the good are important—he will do the same._

_He is playful. When he is overly so, beware. He will try to fool you and make you falter, but act as if nothing is out of the ordinary. Do not lose your temper with him unless it is from the topic of his protection..._

_Resist_ your _desire; feign falling to the desire of_ man _._

_When you inevitably touch him, be relaxed, but be aware that he can shatter all your bones in less than a second. He will put you into vulnerable positions—this is inevitable. Act like nothing is wrong, and he can do no wrong to you._

_He will follow the rules._

_But he is too confident of his own victory._

_And_ that _is how we will win.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohboyohboyohboy things are finally starting! And neither Embodiments can be trusted! I dunno about you guys, but in my opinion the dialogue is pretty important... That's how the game's gonna be played, after all ;) And guess who's already playing?
> 
> And now that we properly met Tom, anyone for LV? ;D;D;D;D
> 
> Okay so remember that you can vote on the final pairing for this fic (aka who wins the TMR/HP/LV love triangle)! You can CHANGE your vote at ANY time before the final chapter is posted. Vote count will be posted in the comments, the most recent reply being the current tally. I will go with majority vote.


	4. I hold with those who favor fire.

It is a pitch black night.

All of the occupants—save one—in the Dark Lord’s manner are asleep; the night of the new moon is not a night to stir the trouble pot any more than magic had already mixed it. For those seeking absolute secrecy, _this_ is the night they can obtain it. You can even say tonight is the night all things are brought to a halt in preparations for the dastardly that will come creeping in the next wave of darkness.

There is no moon to provide guidance; those misled will be misled forever.

The Embodiment of Light smiles. While the rotation of the earth has little effect on him— _normally_ it wouldn't—these were special times. He has no Embodiment of Dark beside him—and so it can be said that in such a situation he becomes bound to the earth just as much as the planet is bound to _him._ He could feel power thrumming in his being, taking in the environment’s and storing it carefully in the pockets of his soul to form a sort of barrier.

Tom will be getting stronger tonight too.

Harry’s close-lipped smile grows into a full-blown grin. Tonightis the night rules can be broken, and however much he wants to speed up the game with some chaos, his lust for his quarry stills his hand. He wants to experience the hunt a bit longer—find out exactly what kind of prey _this_ Voldemort is. He can guess, but on occasion, Tom Riddle’s incarnations still manage to surprise him. He wants to be surprised again, this time.

Shrouded by the night’s blackness, Harry makes his way down the hall until he stands in front of Voldemort’s bedroom door. He pushes it ever so slightly open and Nagini—who is trained to wake at the smallest motion—falls into an even deeper sleep. Harry comes only for Voldemort tonight—no, only for _Tom_.

The Embodiment of Light laughs the sound of innocence and delight. “This is _ever_ so much fun,” he whispers into the silence of the room, and then moves to eye the figure lying on the bed, “Ah, the bliss of sleep. If only gods could experience it—maybe then I could drown everything away in eternal sleep… See what you've done to me, Tom?”

“So… _strange_ , this sleep. I’ve slept before, but I hardly remember what it felt like. When I was human—when _we_ were human… such a long time ago. You’d like to forget, wouldn't you, my dark?” The cushion of the mattress sinks with the additional weight. Harry sighs as he leans forward to look over Voldemort’s sleeping face. “I know. And I do so loathe you for not only abandoning me, but _choosing_ to want to forget. It makes me wonder… was I _ever_ really important to you?”

“All I—all I ever wanted,” Harry whispers, somber and honest and, notably, _san_ e, “was you. You know? How could you give me up like that? Didn't I—didn't _us_ mean anything to you? _Why didn't you take my hand?_ Why did you let me _burn_ , Tom? It hurt so, _so_ much—”

Silence is his only answer. Harry exhales into the dark and moves back to stare across the room and out the window. “I've wanted to ask you for a very long time...and you wouldn't even let me. And now it's too late. Too late for me…”

“That expression on your face when you turned away from me—I can never forget that. You looked—looked content. _Satisfied_. I wondered what I did that made you hate me so much! How long, I wondered, had you been plotting to betray me? How long since you decided to turn away the other half of your _soul_? And how, _how_ did you manage to hide it from me? Did love make me blind? Did I gouge my eyes out and swear off my sight when I decided to love you? I wish you could answer me, and make the person I've become just a bit more just. Just a bit better…”

“Maybe if I was just, these bloodstained hands wouldn't be so terrible. Maybe if I was better, I could regret killing you so many times… Maybe if my rage knew what you found wrong in me, I could believe that love—honest to Aletheia _love_ —could still find me. But I don't know; will never know, perhaps, and so I’m left untouched. And I don't know if the way I am now is better than that.”

Harry takes in a stuttering breath and presses a hand to his heart. The delighted, amused smile is slowly creeping back onto his face. “As I thought; it's impossible like this after all—dulling the pain. I guess this is my answer. Better to hide and cause despair than to despair alone. This way, at least, I'll have petty revenge for company rather than absolute misery. Funny how that works, hm?”

The Embodiment of Light turns to look up at the ceiling. The smile grows wider.

“The centuries without you have made me weaker. Ah… since when have I needed to depend on insanity to protect me? How pathetic…!”

The clarity in his eyes disappears and the wilderness returns. Harry grins, his smile full of teeth and fiendish intent. The night of the new moon is still a blanket over house, and the Embodiment of Light knows well the power surge Tom will get—the most he will get in four years. Soon, it will be time to strike to win.

But first, Harry wants to check.

The mischievous god leans over again, conjures a hand mirror, and holds it above Voldemort’s face. With innocent curiosity, Harry tilts his head to look at the reflection. And there, clear as day, is the face of Tom Riddle, in perfect still sleep.

“I see… So you're still at this stage, are you? This Voldemort must be one of the weaker incarnations… Well, that's a shame, but I'm all for fairness. Oh, it’ll be alright, love,” Harry croons, “I'm not _cruel_. I’ll wait before I… _devour_ our dearest Voldemort. Give you a fighting chance, hm?

Because you know… I _do_ love you, my dark. No matter what you feel about me, I'll still love you until the end of time. I promised, remember? So even if you don't love me, that's alright. We can still play. Because—well, if I can't have _you,_ I'll just get all your other incarnations! They’ll all become delicious meals to my appetite.

I promise to savor them. Bit by bit, sip by sip… I can be patient too, you know. What number am I on now? Ah, nine hundred ninety nine? Until I've eaten a thousand… oh, so this is my last one. Sorry then, but please deal with my selfishness a bit longer.” Harry licked his lips. “Mm, yes; please hurry and get stronger, so I can properly enjoy my final meal.”

The Embodiment of Light laughs, the sound a sweet euphonious chord to break through the shroud of night. Still, the sleeping occupants do not wake. Perhaps it is for the best.

Harry slips out the door and proceeds to slowly slide it shut. His eyes peek through the crack between the door and its door frame for as long as possible.

“Sweet dreams, _my dark_.”

* * *

For the Embodiment of Light, it is an easy task to move wherever on the planet that he pleases. He uses the same trick he’d previously done to get into Voldemort’s manor—creating a little cut in the place he is at and the place he is not—to do it.

Harry goes to Hogwarts.

The last… _debacle_ has somewhat distracted him from causing his bout of chaos, Harry admits. But now he remembers. And conveniently it is the night of the new moon—all the better to make a mess of things. Or rather, to make a bigger mess of something already messy, like Dumbledore’s head. That’ll be fun.

The Embodiment of Light lands in the cluttered office that seemed to never get cleaner in _any_ dimension he hopped to. Suppose the man is probably hiding all his secrets about the room with no one the wiser? In all likelihood, he might be. Dumbledore always claimed there was a “method” to his “madness” previously—Harry probably has as much a love-hate relationship with _that_ phrase as he does with the “Greater Good” rally.

Well. Not like it _matters_. He’s quite done worrying about the aged wizard—his focus has been ever since on _Tom_. This task also has some relation to Tom—though more to Voldemort… it is much the same thing at the moment. There’s too small power within the Embodiment of Dark to consider him independent as of yet. Harry figures he might as well take a hold of the metaphorical stirring stick and stir said metaphorical pot with it, all the while placing a bit of a… _safety net_ around, so to speak.

He was here for the Elder Wand.

Certainly, Death wouldn’t _mind_. While Harry has grown a bit distance to the entity due to his reckless and all-consuming quest to “hunt” his other half, he knows him well enough. Death would rather the Elder Wand be completely destroyed—but if not, its existence truly is only a tad troublesome every few hundred years. After all, the chance of someone obtaining all three of the hallows is absurdly _nonexistent_.

The only one who has ever done so is, actually, Harry. And the fondness the sentient items have for him is only really because of the taint of death about him, pure and saturated. How close he has come to the line, how bathed his magic has been in it—yes, the hallows were and are fickle things, picking and choosing and rarely ever simultaneously _agreeing_. And that is just fine for his purpose.

Harry looks about the room, and it is then the legendary being in the corner notices him. A trill of soft, welcoming notes leaves the phoenix’s throat, but instead of relaxing him, the sound _burns_. Harry presses both his hands to his ears and squeezes his eyes shut at the unintentional attack.

He sees… he sees _fire._

_He smells smoke._

_The world is burning around him, again and again and again, and all he can think of is that he would like to be frozen instead by his rage than scorched and sweltering in his anger._

_How long has it been, since he felt the cooling touch of darkness—_

_Since it calmed his soul, weaved with his light, made him_ whole _?_

_Oh, far too long..._

_And the world burns and burns and burns to ash, and all Harry can think is,_ how many more times must I experience this _?_

_One hundred and eighteen…_

_Two hundred and fifty-one…_

_Three hundred and thirty-four…_

_Five hundred and twenty-two…_

_Eight hundred and ninety-five…_

“Fawkes,” Harry snarls, “You _know_ how I’m like now. Don’t _do_ that!”

The phoenix sings a soft apology. As a light creature, Fawkes’ attraction to the Embodiment of Light is a given—however, Harry isn’t exactly _doing his job_ , and he certainly isn’t doing things the right way. At the moment, his punishment for wrapping himself in such a layer of dark is suffering at his servant’s accidental hand.

_Come you to kill my master?_

“Hmph, hardly,” the Embodiment grumbles. “If I were to do that, _trust me_ , I wouldn’t be wasting a new moon to do it. You’d see me in the day time, probably, past lunch at a comfortable time of afternoon. When I’m at my _leisure_ to do things. That master of yours isn’t so high as to require _my_ stealth.”

_Will you kill him, Your Luminosity?_

“If it suits my plans, I will. Otherwise, he shall live. Regardless the matter of his life—near its expiration date as it is—is _not_ the purpose of my visit. I come for the Wand.”

 _Ah,_ that _troublesome stick of wood. Is it for His Tenebrosity? Is it true he is currently so weak as to not settle into the position yet? Do you perhaps plan to empower him?_

“Watch your tongue, _bird_. None of those questions is in your _right_. You know nothing of the other worlds, and so I hardly expect _you_ to understand my plans. Simply because you hold direct connection to the earth doesn’t make you a guardian or a sentry—I’ll not be _questioned_.”

_Apologies Your Luminosity. I meant not to offend you._

“The Wand is all I need— _wait_. Tell me this, Fawkes—how does your master hold against Voldemort?”

_Fairly but not well, Your Luminosity. I fear the walls of Hogwarts will only be so impenetrable for long. That Dark Lord is strong, and my master weakens—_

Harry snorts. “I pray thee, withhold your faith yet. I care not for the balance of this world. You’ll not find salvation in _me_ —”

Fawkes’ eyes are wise as they look upon him. Even as an Embodiment, the creatures of knowledge always _have_ unnerved him—

_You have been greatly wronged._

“I’ll not say you’re wrong.”

_I blame you not for it, Your Luminosity._

Harry pauses. “That’s… _new_ ,” he mumbles.

_I do not think a creature in the world could withhold their tears for you should they see the state of your soul. Come closer, if it pleases you, and harvest my tears._

Even drowning in insanity, Harry recognizes the action of acknowledgement and great honor, and despite his previous rudeness, walks forward to accept them in a conjured glass vial.

_Your endeavors are not just, your anger grows still like a flame eating twigs. Yet, I wish you well—in the memory of the Harry Potter of this world, as well as the scars I know not how you’ve gotten but simply that you don’t deserve to have. Move swiftly, Your Luminosity, and someday perhaps in another world far removed from this one, I pray you find your peace._

“Pretty words, phoenix,” Harry grumbles, but still nods his head once in acknowledgement. They are the first prayers he has accepted in this world. On that note, the Embodiment of Light turns to head towards Dumbledore’s sleeping quarters.

Hogwarts’ headmaster wakes in the morning, missing a wand.

* * *

Several weeks pass in which Voldemort manages to survive. His act, certainly, has bettered—the Embodiment of Light’s persona is incredibly predictable, which is definitely _good_ because he probably would've lost had it been _un_ predictable. Forcing his body to relax around his light has gotten degrees easier—ever since the death of Luna Lovegood and co., Harry has not raised a hand against him.

Tom assures as long as they are playing and as long as neither of them are winning, he won't—whatever that meant. As he says it there is something shifting behind his tone that discomforts the Dark Lord. He still suspects that the Embodiment of Dark is not being entirely truthful to him, but since his agitation only arose when speaking of the _past_ , Voldemort has no qualms about using the unsteady alliance to his advantage… for now.

There are also times when Harry’s persona… well, _slips_. There is no other way to describe it. For some brief second his smile might be calm and slight, a truthful one from what Voldemort could deduce—or for some lines in their conversation he might become thoughtful, and answer with that same thoughtfulness that was lacking in his more enthusiastic attitudes.

The transition is usually so smooth and sly that Voldemort doesn't recognize it until after it happens. It is a _slip_ because Harry’s moods and personalities and speaking are _always_ fluid—there is no jagged stutter even when he pauses with that curious look on his face, or clear show of acknowledgement that there _is_ some sort of a difference within him. It is undoubtedly _strange_ , and the Dark Lord is wary but somehow his curiosity always wins out in the end.

He wants to know this Harry, strange and sensible with almost _shy_ and small affection. What he manages to convey is no less than in his exuberance, and for that, Voldemort is curious. The Harry that occasionally slips into the scene is kind, with no clear hidden purpose or trickery beneath his words. He is _honest_ , and Voldemort sees the knowledge of the world within his eyes.

“My dark?”

The Dark Lord is brought from his thoughts by Harry’s presence. Voldemort waves him in, and Harry drifts into the expansive dueling room.

“What troubles you, my light?” he asks when Harry plops down beside him on the wooden floor.

“Lucius says you were not to be disturbed,” the Embodiment of Light begins slyly, “so Severus was going to wait until later to tell you, but I figured you’d be pleased to know _this_ right away.”

“Nonsense,” Voldemort waves again. His replies are quick and without prompt from Tom anymore. “You’re never a bother, my light. I was only meditating. What news do you bring?”

Harry beams. “It seems like Dumbledore has, in the last two weeks, not casted any magic before his Order… But today he has, and Severus said he was using a strange, gnarled wand… not his _usual_ one.”

“Knows Severus what wood it was?”

“He didn't get a very good look at it, but different from his usual one. It was a lighter wood.”

“Hn. It sounds like the wand he used back in my earlier years of Hogwarts… That was a time ago. Why would he go back to using it, I wonder…”

Harry laughs, his eyes a beautiful gradient of mischief. “Perhaps he… _lost_ his other one to that poltergeist. Oh, but aren't you _pleased,_ my dark? Dumbledore has lost the key to immortality!”

Voldemort noticeably freezes. “Pardon?”

“Here. Read this.” Harry shoves a book into his hands and eagerly flips it to a certain page. “The Tale of the Three Brothers!”

“Isn’t this a children’s book?”

“There is a bit of truth in every fairytale, my dark,” Harry replies, sending him another sly look. “I've become rather fond of them… and _finding the truths hidden in the lies_.”

Voldemort reads the story under Harry’s impatient gaze. When he is done, the Dark Lord looks up and eyes the Embodiment curiously. He receives a wide smile for his efforts. “I wonder what sort of news you bring me—good, for what this could imply, or bad, for now yet another player enters our field.”

“Are you not eager to go treasure hunting too?”

“These items could be anywhere in the world—”

Harry frowns, abruptly standing up. “That's never stopped you before—”

“Tell me then, have I ever gathered all three of these items? Do you know of anyone who has?”

“…No,” Harry chooses to say.

“Certainly these items are of great power, but I have all my power now, _here_ and before me—” the Dark Lord reaches up a hand, and Harry quickly sits again to grab it, “—I do not need these things, my light.”

Harry flushes, and tries to hide his face by holding his two hands—enclosed around Voldemort’s own captured hand—in front of him. “V-Voldemort! You’ll be the death of me, I'm sure! Ah, I'm so _happy_ you have such faith in me—”

“And why would I not?” the Dark Lord interrupts. “How precious you are, supremely loyal above the rest—why would I not have the same faith in you that you have in me?”

As anticipated, Harry makes a noise of delight and leaps upon his dark to pull him into an embrace. Voldemort is pleased his plans have appeared to work, and while he is content with that, there is still something within him that desires _more_. His greed and recent slew of successes have made him believe that he plays the game with a flawless and unmatched skill—pride and overconfidence, the Dark Lord plans to bring out the _other_ Harry.

“What is _your_ opinion on these items, my light? Do you desire them? If you do, I’ll take the quest to find them for you.”

Harry doesn't pull away; instead, he settles into the Dark Lord’s arms and lets his weight rest against the side he occupies. “Hm? No, I don't want them,” he waves off. “You said it best—I need no other power than the power here beside me.”

“However?”

Harry laughs at the prompting. “I was simply interested by curiosity, my dark. I _so_ love a good adventure. I thought it would be good fun if we could go off and search them out together.”

“Perhaps after, we could. A fantastical excuse to travel the world,” Voldemort muses. “I admit I find the idea pleasing as well.”

Harry twists his neck to look up at the Dark Lord, and when Voldemort sees that close-lipped, small smile, he feels he knows how to bring out the _other_ Harry now.

* * *

“ _For the most part, you did a good job not falling for that trap,”_ Tom says when the Dark Lord steps in front of his mirror. As of late, the dimness in his eyes has faded away. Voldemort knows strength is returning to the Embodiment of Dark. His voice is still soft and hollow and can be sometimes slow, but there are moments when it is strong and recognizable, with a familiar bit of superiority.

“Yes, I figured that was what he was trying to do—how foolish would I be as an eternal being lusting after immortality? I figured they were powerful items in their own right apart from _that_ aspect, so I omitted the term.”

“ _That was well-played. As for the other half… You play with fire, Lord Voldemort,”_ Tom chides. “ _Did I not say to beware the Embodiment of Light? You go too far, meddle in things that will disadvantage you playing the game. If you give him rope to pull, he will take the entire length.”_

Voldemort glares. “I don't have a clue what you mean.”

“ _Play the game with only one opponent—you are already outmatched despite your alliance with me. If you choose to bring in another, he will run circles around you and then toy with you until he wishes for your destruction.”_

“So they _are_ different?”

“ _…Who is_ they _?”_

“Do not take me for a _fool_! I’ll not be tricked by _you_ when _I_ am the one doing battle! I gave you room to keep the particular secrets thatI care not for to yourself. I will not be _lied to_ , from someone who should rightfully be _me_. You’ll not escape my questions—” He is cut off by the sheer strength of the _look_ Tom gives him.

_“Harry is Harry. He is insane—perhaps even more lost than that Light Lord. Think you that he is incompetent? Think you he knows not how to act? I told you—warned you—of his tricks. He will try to charm you in any way possible, and believe me he knows many. He has hunted many less and many more powerful than you—and always, he wins. Beware the Embodiment of Light—Beware—”_

“He was _different_ ,” Voldemort protests.

“ _…What you saw is the face of what he used to be. I know well how he is that no longer. All that could be beloved in him has turned to ash, and all that curses and plagues his sanity is faggot for the hungry fire hidden in his eyes. You must remember you know nothing of him and what he is._ I _am his other half. I know him best. Take my warning and shield yourself with it.”_

The Dark Lord knows there is truth in his reflection’s words. He _does_ know little of the Embodiment of Light—only the persona he uses, and that, he feels, is purposely predictable for him. There is still some inkling in his mind to not trust this other him, and he agrees with such wholeheartedly—but it is still too early to ignore warnings and become his own judge. For now, he would wait and see.

_There is something suspicious about Harry Potter…_

“ _Is your disinterest in the hallows true?_ ” Tom asks as a change of subject.

“I’m… _interested_ , but if what he says is true of them, I might as well forego chasing such a phantom power.”

“ _Wise. You would not be able to obtain them. In all the worlds I came to, they accepted only one—and not even consistently.”_

Voldemort blinks. “The Embodiment of Light says he knew none—”

_“Oh, he would not—for that one is himself, and not one person can say, truthfully and confidently, that they know themselves. I did not take you for someone gullible—have you come too far in trusting his rules that he has made for himself? He is not to be trusted.”_

“Neither are _you_.”

 _“The difference is that I care not for your trust—as long as our desired ends come to our victory,_ that _is what I care about. And so should you as well. Do you not want to survive?”_

Voldemort does not take the scolding easily. He bristles, angered and insulted from being _admonished_ by his _other self_. But he says nothing. Like a child—and perhaps he is one, in front of the Embodiment of Dark—he holds onto his anger in his chest, never letting go even while his mouth remains shut. He waits for Tom Riddle to feel as if he’s won and made his point; still, Voldemort says not a word.

_Neither god can be trusted._

_I must use both to survive them._

Tom sighs. “ _If you do not seek all three hallows,”_ he says, bringing the subject back to hand, “ _at least seek one. The Cloak of Invisibility. It cannot shield from person-targeted curses and the like, but other jinxes, charms and such will be blocked. Just as well, it will hide you from the eyes of Death—not a Killing Curse will fell you beneath its protection.”_

“I have horcruxes,” Voldemort says.

 _“Yes, and you might_ not _in the future. From what I remember, Dumbledore knows of their existence. Will you seek the Cloak?”_

“Where is it?”

_“In Harry Potter’s tomb. It is the Potter heirloom—but worry not, you may still be protected by it even if you do not own it. Simply, you cannot become Master of Death even with three items if they do not recognize you as owner. That doesn't interfere with your plans, does it?”_

Voldemort’s answer is reluctant. “…No.”

Outside the door, Harry leans against the wood as he falls into a flutter of quiet laughter. “Oh _Tom_ ,” he grins, “Darling, you’re _so_ ever predictable! If anyone is making the mistakes, it’s _you_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOOOOOOO TOM WHAT ARE YOU DOING HE'S STILL IN THERE! NOOOOOO YOU'RE MAKING A HUGE MISTAKE!1!!!!1!1!
> 
> ...Or is he? Does Tom know something that _we_ don't know?! Are we supposed to take Harry literally, or figuratively?! And how "in danger" is Voldemort's life?
> 
> The mysteries continue! :D Though, if you're paying attention to the chapter flow in relation to the chapter _title_ , you'll probably get a big hint as to how everything's gonna build up. 
> 
> Remember, since we're voting on final pairing (aka the resolution to the love triangle of TMR/HP/LV), you can totally vote by posting in the comments any time before the final chapter is posted! And you can CHANGE that vote at ANY TIME! Just make another comment, and I'll do the rest ;). The vote tally is in the comments as the most recent reply to a voter, so that's how you check! Either go for TMR/HP, LV/HP, TMR/HP/LV 3some, or no final pairing at all (aka Harry kicks both of their asses, though that might be inevitable anyway). 
> 
> I'll be going with majority vote~ :P


	5. But if it had to perish twice...

_There is ice._

_Tom smirks._

“Wh-What have I done to _you_?!” a man cries. He is on the ground, shivering, staring up at the sky in vain prayer. “What have I done to displease you, God?! Why will you not bring me forth to the heavens?! Why must I suffer?!”

“You dare ask that to a god you tried to kill?”

The man jolts at the voice, turning to face the pillar of ice nearby. Tom Riddle appears from nowhere before it, and walks forward.

“ _Y-You_! You’re no God! You’re a _monster_!”

“Hm, funny how that works, isn’t it?” Tom raises a hand, and the man is trapped in a cage of ice. Another twitch of the finger has him raised up above the ground, standing but not, with one leg completely turned to ice. The man screams.

“ _You_ are the one who hatched such a convoluted plan to commit murder. _You_ are the one who would sacrifice an entire world for your own desires. _You_ are the one at fault for this world’s destruction. And yet you call _me_ the monster?” Tom chuckles. “A god is never wrong.”

 _“Revenge_! _It is all for revenge_! The families of all those you’ve killed are supporting me—I know it! They desire your death just as much as I do! You won't escape, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named! Your soul will be trialed for the murder of Dorcas Meadowes and all others you have—”

Tom flicks his hand again. The man screams.

“Truly, I don't care. No wonder I hated mudbloods when I was human,” the Embodiment of Dark sneers. “Foolish creatures. Ignorant. Too afraid and _stupid_ to recognize what is before their very eyes. You have no God here. It is only I, and I assure you I have no reservations dealing out punishment. Shall we have that beloved trial you so rant about?”

 _“You have no right_ —”

“Richard Meadowes,” Tom begins as if he hasn't heard, “You have tried to kill a god. You have tried to kill the Embodiment of Dark _and,_ by association, the Embodiment of Light,” his eyes darken at the title of his lover, “You have overstepped the boundaries of man by traveling dimensions. You alone are responsible for the deaths of all _our followers_ and the pain of _my light._ As you can see, with all these crimes I have no reservations punishing you.”

“The only one who can punish me is God,” the man spits.

“Oh, good. If you begged for mercy I would've been inclined to at least spare the existence of your soul. Since you do not, I can punish you with full intention of _destroying it_. Don't go taking back your word now, will you?”

Burgundy eyes flash, revealing the god’s rage.

“Know that _you_ have done this. Know that it is _you_ —you who have no place here, you that are a speck of _dirt_ upon my shoulder—that have done this. You have taken power that is not yours, a title that is not yours, and have done _this_. And I _do not_ , _will not_ pity you.  _You are to blame for it all_. You will take _all blame_ in the stead of your race—for I do not know how many worlds it would take to recompense me for all your doings.

“ _A god is never wrong_. And _you_ , no matter how you so try, are _no god_. “ _Destroyer of Evil”_? Don’t make me laugh! All _you_ can destroy is your own kind. Though I suppose they _are_ a sort evil—plague and pestilence upon this earth.

“I do not pity you. For all the terror you have brought— _eradication_ of _worlds_ —I do not pity you. Seek no pity from your God here—he will not come.”

“ _You_ destroyed those worlds,” Meadowes hoarsely whispers, “ _you_. I _did nothing_ —”

“You forced my hand. You did nothing because I _allowed_ you none. Those worlds perished because you _insisted_ upon this silly game of _cat_ and _mouse_. No it is not _I_ who takes the blame for those casualties— _you_ do. For if your plan succeeded _I_ and my better half would have been obliterated, and you know very well, don’t you—that if the Embodiments meet their end, so too does that world meet _its_ end. And if the Embodiments depart from a world after becoming the respective Embodiment, then so too does that world depart from existence.

“You know all this. You deserve no pity. You deserve no _salvation_. And certainly it will not be _I_ or my better half that will give you such—no, we are gods created for the express purpose of _hunting down the fools like you_ and _annihilating_ you.

“Enough. I grow impatient of your arrogance and stubborn ignorance. Perish now, along with this world you so have claimed to _save_.”

It begins to snow. No, _not snow_ —hail. Chunks of ice no bigger than a sickle, no heavier than a galleon—and then the size of quaffles with the weight of bludgers, and then the size of hippogriffs with the weight of a troll—yes, _hail_. Through it all, Tom is untouched. They seem to fall and shatter inordinately slow as if in respect of the destruction, allowing those who perish to admire the ferocity of nature _one last time_.

Tom watches to ensure the demise of the pest. His gaze is indifferent, as if it is a sight he has seen a million times—no, perhaps _has_ seen a million times with how long he has lived. Just like his previous words have implied, he gains little pleasure from this finishing act, only a desire that it shall end and it all will be done with for good.

“ _Harry_ … Wait not long, love, for I _will_ return to you.”

_There is ice._

_And even after Tom leaves, there is nothing but ice—until there is nothing left entirely._

* * *

Voldemort awakes gasping for breath and clutching his chest, right hand mimicking an owl’s talons embedded in its prey just as it gripped his night robes over his heart. He sits up, disoriented, and looks this way and that about his room but finds no cause for such a waking.

 _Other_ than his dream.

No… not _dream._ It would be improper to call it a _dream_ when it is not— _was_ not.

Voldemort looks at his hands. They are trembling.

As he has grown accustomed to these days, weeks of time since the game has started, the Dark Lord waves his hand and wandlessly conjures a mirror to speak to (the not yet recovered and therefore unclaimed) Embodiment of Dark. Ever since the new moon, a dark night spent in surprisingly peaceful slumber, Tom has been recovering his strength and vitality in leaps and bounds. However, it is still the fear of what Harry will pull next that keeps them from taking advantage of it.

Rather still to live in security and safeguards than to spend frivolously what they can do for far little, simply for convenience’s sake. Voldemort stares into wakeful, fatigued burgundy eyes.

It is not a new weariness that haunts them. It is an old come back from the graveyard; a revitalized exhaustion that only the experience of those events in life previous to the present can bring.

“ _I apologize_ ,” Tom says. His voice is dangerously close to returning to the hollow-soft of the weeks’ before, something that Voldemort realized had been because of—thankfully—lack of strength and nothing near _usual_. “ _I did not mean for you to see. I did not mean for myself either to dream.”_

“A man cannot help what his mind forces upon him,” the Dark Lord relents.

“ _Ah, but_ I _am no man, Lord Voldemort_ ,” reminds Tom. “ _And regardless, we have always possessed a strange though secure command over our minds. No, assure me from blame not. It is uncharacteristic of you, and I am certain you only do it because the dream has afflicted you with some sorts of distressing ailments.”_

“That was no dream, was it?”

“ _...Correct. It was a memory.”_

“From when?”

“ _From before. From a long time ago—a long, long time ago. So long ago I often do not feel time encompasses it, or that part of my life at all,”_ Tom answers. “ _But that is neither here nor there. It is long past—_ passed _I say. Calm yourself and sleep again. It is only two past the highest hour, and sleep is a precious luxury of man.”_

Voldemort forces a laugh, a sort of sound from the back of his throat that lasts only for a syllable and nothing more. It is calming to make light of a situation he does not understand. “And _your_ sleep is…?”

“ _Was. A healing sleep; I need it not longer. No, in fact it is better to say I_ cannot use it _any longer. My period of…_ illness, _I suppose you could regard it as, is over. My magic no longer desires to force me into rest, and so I cannot. But in the stretches of night, I can dream. They are not_ your _sort of dreams, illusory images that escape your grasp at the break of day, but_ stark, clear _memories that continue their haunting even under the sun’s glare.”_

“You reminisce.”

“ _Without wanting to. While fearing to. If you compile as many ghosts as me, child that you are, they will form a chain no matter_ whom _or_ what _you are. Your demons are too tame to have any effect on you now. Mine—_ mine _are vicious, and they take one form and one form only.”_

“What form is that?”

Tom smiles, bitter and ironic. “ _Why, the devil of course. Not the mundane devil, but much the same—an angel that has thrown himself into the pits of hell. Fallen._ Pushed _. Surpassed demons of all sorts on its way. No, I will not give you a name to sate your mild curiosity. It is not good for this time of night, or for your situation. Sleep, Dark Lord, under the assurance that it will remain unbothered._ Mine _has none, so let my words be liquid wisdom and shall you drink them—sleep, for it is man’s most precious luxury—that which even the gods cannot hope to have.”_

Voldemort slides back down onto the bed. He feels his heart, still aching relentlessly for some reason he can’t quite explain. “What sort of curse is Harry Potter,” he asks aloud after he banishes the mirror. He receives no answer.

But he knows anyway.

_In fire or in ice, both a captivating beauty—which do you prefer?_

_Certainly, if it were to end in ice, fire would be better—an instantaneous burst containing all the magnificence of life, thence forth burning to ash. But if I were to call forth fire, ice would've been better—for of what it destroys, life and all, it reveres and respects and demands the silence due to such a tragic end._

_Harry Potter is much the same. For as a curse he is so divine he should be the blessing among the vile. But as a blessing he is so terrible he should be the curse among the saints._

_“If he is to be my end, I would not mind.”_

_That is the lie hiding in the truth._

_I would know, as his better half._

* * *

The Dark Lord is asleep.

Harry enters the room. Upon seeing Voldemort, he smiles, and with no reserves flounces up to the bed and lays down beside the slumbering body. The Embodiment of Light curls up close, short hair splayed upon the bed sheets as he watches the rhythmic rise and fall of breath.

So easy to end the life.

Harry sees the crease upon Voldemort’s brow, still remaining after the dream memory. He frowns, sits up and lays a hand upon the Dark Lord’s forehead. The effect is almost instantaneous—the man calms, eases his expression; Harry’s answering smile is genuine. Even if he hates him, Tom cannot live without him. Having resided in an incarnation’s body for so long, the little habits seep over.

…Speaking _of_ …

Harry lies back down and waves his hand, conjuring a body length mirror upon the ceiling. He ignores his other half for awhile to cuddle closer to Voldemort. Tom is not the only one who dreams.

“ _You’re breaking the rules,_ ” Tom finally says. His voice wavers; with fear or with anger, Harry does not know. Harry does not care.

“No,” Harry says, “I'm cheating. I'm only breaking the rules if _he_ —” he lays a hand over Voldemort’s heart, “—finds out. And he won't, because _you_ won't tell him.”

“ _What are you doing here, Harry,_ ” Tom demands quietly. “ _Leave. I play your game, you can want for no more.”_

“Oh Tom, you always were such a control freak,” Harry laughs. He nuzzles the shoulder beside him. “I'm showing how much I love you, of course. Surely you can't fault me for _that_? I'm cheating for _you_ , darling. At my own detriment, I must say. You should thank me—ah, I need no thanks; your love is enough for me.”

“ _Leave.”_

Harry pouts. “What? So cruel to your lover! No “ _you’re very precious to me_ ”? Not even a “I _adore you, my light_ ”? What's the point of making Voldemort say those things if _you_ won't say them to me when we’re alone? Honestly Tom, I can't tell if you want to play with me or not. Make up your mind, darling!”

_“If you won't leave, tell me what you're here for.”_

“So cruel. So cold,” the Embodiment of Light moans, “how _ever_ have I dealt with you in the past? But it's alright. I love you, so I'll forgive you. I'll even still cheat for you, my dark. All you have to do is tell me how you feel about me. Do you hate me? Adore me? Loathe me with the passion you used to make love to me with? You’ve no idea how _badly_ I want to know…”

Tom remains stubbornly silent. Harry sighs.

“ _Please_? Reward me—spoil me for being good to you, Tom. I've given you rest, I've given you _time_ in a game where _time_ is priceless. I show you my love every day I restrain from slicing through this pretty pale neck—” he caresses the vulnerability the Dark Lord reveals in his sleep, “—surely I've been good to you, love. Can't you grant me this simple knowledge?”

Tom’s silence grows, but Harry can sense the presence of words beating behind it.

“Or is it that you can't say? Now more than ever, that blasted pride of yours is getting in the way? You've never had reserves about telling me before—so can it be that you love me too much to hate me, but wish to hate me too much to ever adore me? Even the sound of _that_ admission would be music to my ears. Come now, sweetheart—don't you want to know what news I bring? I promise it's worth the sound of your voice.”

 _“I detest you,”_ Tom whispers slowly. “ _You are not the one I love; you will never be again. You have consumed him, and for that I_ detest _you_.”

“Ho!” Harry laughs, “A _lie_! Why, I would've never thought! No, your love and hate are equal and simultaneous, just as our existences are. If anything, you _fear me_. In the end, I hold sway over your heart and life, and you _know_. Ah, how that must _kill you_ —you, the control freak! I am your other half, so of course I would know. You've always loved me, haven't you?”

“ _Never,”_ Tom says.

The Embodiment of Light’s expression grows furious. “Don't lie to me!” he snarls.

“ _I have never. I will never. Not_ you.”

“Don't lie!” Harry shouts, “Don't lie! I _know_!”

“ _You know nothing.”_

 _“_ Say it, then! Say you do not love me! I _dare you_!”

“ _I'll not do as you like. I am your better half. You cannot command me. If anything,_ you _are the one who fears_ me.”

Harry’s glare is so strong that it should break the mirror. It doesn't, and Tom takes the full brunt of his rage through his eyes. He refrains from flinching by some miracle. Tom knows this is the only way to beat the Embodiment of Light as he is now—feign control, give no ground, refuse him—what he does not know is how much it breaks him, how much farther, deeper Harry falls and fractures. He does not know, and Harry’s cry is swallowed by the black hole of his insanity.

“I am taking him from you,” the Embodiment of Light says, voice on the brink of releasing his rage. “I am taking the Dark Lord Voldemort, the only hope of your victory. I am taking him. And there is nothing you can do to stop me. No warning you can give, no caution you can instill that will lead him away from me. He is _mine_ , as all your incarnations are. As _you_ are. You cannot escape me. You can try, but you will not succeed. _You_ are _mine_.”

“ _You’re wrong._ ” The only way Tom knows how to win is by bluffing.

“I'm right. I'm always right. Just watch—I'll eat him up, nurture his obsession until it is so much a part of him that he cannot survive without me. History will repeat itself—oh and it will be _glorious_. Tell me, how much will it kill you inside to watch him fuck this body of mine? To have what you cannot have? And knowing, _knowing_ that that which you covet is your deadliest poison— _glorious_. My victory will be glorious. You’ll see.”

“ _He's wiser than that.”_

“You could never resist me before. What makes this one different?”

Harry laughs when Tom is silent. The Embodiment of Light turns back to the slumbering body beside him, nuzzles the shoulder, and inhales the scent. It will be a scent he’ll know well soon enough. It will be a scent that _covers_ him soon enough. Soon, soon soon soon…

Soon, the pain will go away.

* * *

In his sleep, Voldemort dreams.

There is a feather-light touch upon his skin, something he knows he would normally abhor—but all it brings is comfort and peace, affection not in the action but who is _performing_ the action. Soft laughter accompanies it. The laugh is as familiar as the touch.

Voldemort finds he doesn’t have the strength to open his eyes nor move his limbs, and while this frustrates him, it is not a paralysis—his body is simply too lethargic to move.

“Come now, love—you can’t sleep the whole day. You have some important meetings scheduled for later in the afternoon and evening—”

Voldemort opens his eyes. He feels his lips and tongue and mouth move without his order. “It’s only morning.”

There is another laugh. He turns his head to see—who else but Harry Potter? Voldemort is not surprised—the man haunts him, he swears, and who else would address him like that and smile at him like that and _touch him_ like that? No one touches him. No one dares.

No one except Harry Potter—the Embodiment of Light.

“Yes, and soon it will be noon, and then it will be _after_ noon, and soon enough it will be evening.” Harry laughs. He is different—not insane, not forcefully enthusiastic. Voldemort imagines _this_ is the true Harry Potter—the one behind the mask.

And this… this was a dream, wasn’t it? He doesn’t know. Maybe.

“Merciless creature,” Voldemort groans. “Let me be!”

Harry laughs again—a natural sound, so much lighter than what the Dark Lord is used to. Harry’s laughs are usually sweet and melodic, cavity-inducing, filled with the essence of something darker and hidden—like chocolate. They’re always so full, so _perfectly_ full. At first enchanting, then later _sickening_.

So _these_ laughs _now_ are a breath of fresh air.

“Don’t be like that,” Harry says as he pulls the blankets away. Voldemort expects to be assaulted with the cold warning air as the heating charms he usually has set upon his bed are obviously absent—but he isn’t. How curious. His new body not only looks snake-like but _is_ snake-like—requiring a higher regulation of temperatures and the environment to, in turn, be faster and lighter upon his feet, among other advantageous things.

Voldemort has grown accustomed to tending to these needs. To not feel the usual repercussions of _not_ is… odd.

He feels himself reach out and yank the blankets back. Upon doing so he sees his hand—not the normal pale, inhuman hand, but his old one.

The answer comes to him with a start. It’s _Tom_ ’s hand. His dream is a memory—and yet he experiences it as if it were just happening, as if it is _his_. How strange. But unlike the other one, there is nothing desperate and despairing beneath the situation—no, it is uncommonly _mundane_ and _domestic_ so far. He does not feel threatened in the least, and thus sees no reason not to let the dream continue.

“Oh, _really_ now—don’t you want to have breakfast with me?”

“We can have breakfast in bed,” Voldemort replies. “We’ve done it before.”

“My spoiled darkness,” Harry mumbles with a sigh. “Well, yes—but those were on days I _specifically_ made sure your schedule was cleared. _Today_ is not one of those days.”

“It’s still morning.”

“Yes, and if I let you do as you please, soon it will _not_ be.” Harry sends him a significant look, and Voldemort can feel himself send one back.

“A few more minutes.”

“Whatever for?”

Voldemort grunts. Harry sighs.

“Weren’t _you_ the one to tell me that world domination doesn’t happen without hard work?”

“We’ve won. We’ve dominated. We’re ruling. You can spare me a few more minutes.”

Harry pouts. “On any other day I _would_ , but today’s an important day and you’ll be grouchy with me for the rest of it if I let you sleep in!”

“I won’t—”

“You _will_. How long have I been your bed-mate for? I’ve learned your habits well enough, I think.”

Voldemort stays silent. He closes his eyes and turns onto his side, away from his companion. Harry huffs at this and reaches for his shoulder to turn him back around, but the second his hand touches him, Voldemort feels his body grab the appendage and pull him down too.

There is a bit of wrestling involved, but finally the Dark Lord manages to capture his lover in his arms and quit the offending nagging.

“Sleep,” he commands.

He feels Harry’s chest deflate with his exhalation. “A few minutes.”

Warmth and affection fill his chest, emotions that only are so when he and the Embodiment of Light do “battle.” They are Tom’s feelings, he knows—Tom’s, not his, for all the old Embodiment of Dark goes on about _beware_ and _don’t trust him_ and the like, Tom is the one who cannot suppress his emotions for Harry. Now, though, Voldemort feels he can understand.

The warmth has always been muted, before. There but not, just like Tom’s hollow-soft voice. Now, in this dream-that-is-a-memory, Voldemort feels the whole brunt of them. They overtake him like a wave, push and wrap about him like the wind, and while his heart topples and dives into the deep with profound eagerness, his body feels stronger than ever. It is a better fuel than adrenaline, this warmth—and just as it brings him to a height he could never dream of flying to, it sinks, and brings him back down to holy land.

He is both a bird and a fish, small and insignificant in relation to the sky and sea of these emotions. It is no wonder Tom often cannot hide his… _love_ even while he is being hunted by the very person—if it is so strong, and so reciprocated, how one could hide and turn away from it is beyond Voldemort. There is power here comparable to the likes of Magic, only here is close to the source!

“Voldemort,” Harry whispers. No, he has misheard—a moment later, Harry repeats, “Tom.”

Voldemort grunts. This time, he opens his eyes without further prompting, loosening his hold on his lover even as he tilts his head and presses a kiss to his neck. “Enough, my creature,” he grumbles, “Up with you then. Disturb me no more; you’ve made your point.”

Harry smiles, wriggling out of his grasp and pressing his lips against the Dark Lord’s cheek in return. “Dramatic this morning, aren’t we? So glad you see it my way. The house-elves have already prepared breakfast and I do believe my favorite ferret is waiting below with a report from America. Come—I'll help you put on your robes if you help me put on mine.”

Voldemort feels himself rise.

“As many thanks as there are curses for you, love,” he hears himself grumble, to which Harry only smiles and softly laughs.

Voldemort discovers why Harry has offered to robe him then. The cloth is heavy and official-looking, physically layered as well as magically with a seemingly infinite amount of protection magics. Elegant runes are sown into the design of the fabric, and even the thread is twined with some magical properties. It is technically not practical for dueling, thus why Voldemort never has owned one himself, but he suspects with how Harry goes on about _who_ they are meeting that it is a matter of formalities.

His robe is black trimmed with silver. Harry’s is a stark contrasting white with gold.

They come down to the smell of breakfast.

“My Lord,” someone greets them the minute they enter the parlor. He nods to Harry. “So the Guard Dog has finally decided to bring his master down, hm?”

“I decided the ferret has waited a proper amount of time,” Harry replies with an equally teasing tone.

Voldemort observes the interaction. It is not Abraxas, nor Lucius that his companion speaks to, but certainly a Malfoy—that is known. The Malfoys have always aged well, but the Dark Lord, as a long time acquaintance of the family, can accurately estimate that the man is around… say, thirty-five? He looks closer at the face. Not Lucius—the Black family blood appears to run through the man’s veins with his hair a bit waiver than the straight associated with the Malfoys.

Cheek bones a bit softer, though high. Dimples. Eyes the silver of the Malfoy family, but shaped like a Black.

Narcissa’s son—Draco. Then that means the same age as Harry—and Voldemort realizes with a start that he doesn't _know_ what time the memory takes place in, so long and mysterious the Embodiments’ lives have been.

“Breakfast awaits. Have you eaten?” Harry continues the conversation as they all adjourn to the table.

“No. They insisted, but I would not keep my Lord waiting,” Draco replies. “I met Lovegood on the way here—or more like she was waiting for me. She told me to tell you that she has gathered almost all the materials necessary—for what venture, she told me you would know—and will come back soon. In time for the solstice.”

“Welcome news,” is all the information Harry willingly gives. The Malfoy, whom Voldemort vaguely  remembers, had been fairly antagonistic to the Boy-Who-Lived when he still _lived_ , yet now shows deferment. Curious. But the Dark Lord reminds himself that this _is_ , technically, another dimension—things would differ. Apparently this.

Voldemort continues through the dream, not knowing when it will it end. It is curious—he can sit back and observe as if he is a foreign presence, and yet every movement he makes, every feeling, every time he speaks or Harry touches him, he is pulled back into the world to participate. There are tasks he is familiar with, other that are foreign, and he notes that throughout it all, Harry is beside him. Even though his companion _should_ have his own affairs to tend to, he follows Voldemort.

And it is then that he can make some sense of it, through reading the comments and off-handed remarks of others, of whispers and praise among other things.

“Guard Dog,” they all call him. “The Dark Lord’s Guard Dog—the Light Lord, that is.”

Where one is found, rarely is the other _not_. And yet Harry is able to deftly handle his own matters at the same time as the Dark Lord’s. It is… impressive. How he does it, Voldemort doesn't know, but Tom—who he has to remind himself that he takes the part of—is aware and does so in return. They are so cognizant of each other it is rather surreal to watch, never mind partake in.

Voldemort, as Tom, is brought along as a curious bystander turned dragged-in participant.

“Guard Dog” is still an odd nickname. Why? From what he knows, Harry doesn't stand for degradation—and yet this nickname should rightfully be so. Where has it originated from anyway? Notably, it is not the “Dark Lord’s Pet” or simply “Dog,” or anything similar—

Specifically, “ _Guard_ Dog.”

Even stranger, Harry seems to take great pride _and_ great amusement in its usage. He does not mind being greeted by it, as he is even by the French officials—and does not seem to care for being known far and wide as Light Lord.

 _That_ title only seems to hold importance in that he _has it_ and takes on the corresponding duties to his people; Harry could care less if they address him by it.

Also notable is the connotation that “Guard Dog” has. One might think it implies Harry’s submissive relation to him—it does not. Voldemort realizes early on that it is said with the same reverence that one might think “Light Lord” would be said with, or his own title “Dark Lord.” The Dark Lord’s Guard Dog is by no means a derogatory term, or even a name for a relation between master and pet. Guard Dog wields its _own_ power, apparently—what it is, Voldemort does not know.

He arrives back at the manor from which they came from, a place he assumes is home. Harry certainly treats it so, and he realizes with a start that they are alone in it, save for the house-elves. Utterly alone. No Nagini, or other pet inhabits it; no owlry, which is especially odd for a manor with people of such importance, none of his minions, or any other such people.

Voldemort finds it somewhat odd—is it because ever since they began to rule, his minions no longer needed to hide? Is it because the Death Eaters are no longer needed and are abolished—though they still see him as their Lord as per dark Wizard instincts? Why are there no snakes then?

There are still things he doesn't know, but he admits the dream is giving him a better idea of who the Embodiment of Light is—or _was_ , as he certainly is this Harry no longer.

At least, not completely. It is all rather confusing. Voldemort ends up with more questions than he started with.

“I’m _exhausted_ ,” Harry groans as he throws himself onto the sofa in their room, “Only three times every year; I _suppose_ it is bearable, but—”

“Mm. Up, love, we _do_ need to get out of these robes before we can rest.”

Harry grumbles, but stands with some difficulty in agreement. With all the enchantments layered upon the robes, it is unwise—rather impossible, actually—to remove them with magic or transfigure them.

Once the main layers are off, Harry immediately takes the opportunity to wind his arms about Voldemort’s neck, pressing his lips to his chin before he demands, “Kiss.”

They do—slow, lazy, relaxed and unhurried. Not soft, not lightly, but all the same not hard or desperate either. They kiss, Voldemort muses, mind hazy as he lives both in and out of the moment, like the weather. Varied, but natural; inevitable, but unpredictable. Yes—perhaps that sums up the entirety of Harry and Tom’s relationship. Like the weather, ever-present and ever-changing.

“Needy,” Voldemort murmurs against his lips when they begin to part.

Harry corrects him, “No, _clingy_.” Something about the way he says it makes Voldemort laugh, and his companion, still in his arms, arranges his head in the crook of his neck instead. Voldemort can feel the Light Lord smile there, skin against skin, as if he’d only corrected him for the sole purpose of making him laugh rather than any serious matter at all.

“And I choose to be because I can,” Harry adds. The smile grows wider. “Definitely not out of any affection for _you_.”

“Power addict,” Voldemort laughs. “Doing things because you can—how dare the Light Lord be so selfish.”

“Look who’s talking here!”

“Mm… following all stereotypes, I’m perfectly within my right.”

“If you’re accusing _me_ though, you’d better step up your game before I run you out of a job. I can be a Dark Lord too, if I wanted to—and you know what they say, _there can only be one_.”

Voldemort feels his lips curve into a smile. “Of course you can, love.”

“I _can_!” Harry halfheartedly argues.

“Of course.”

“Jerk. We’re both Lords—you don’t get to be mean to me, because I can beat you up.”

“I dare say you won’t,” Voldemort replies, rubbing the small of Harry’s back, “Since all I’d have to do to make you stop is kiss you, and then you’ll turn all pretty and clingy again and let me do as I like.”

“Is that before or after I throw you on the ground and shout obscenities at you?” Harry playfully nips him to emphasize his dominance.

Voldemort throws his head back and laughs. “After,” he says, pulling Harry backwards with him toward the bed, “because I always win.”

His companion laughs as well, pecks him on the cheek, and then says, with his most belittling, indulgent smile painted upon his face, “Of course you do, love.”

“You don’t believe me. That certainly won’t do—allow me to _show_ you…”

After hours of indulging themselves in order to come to a... _compromise_  in regards to their little joke, the two Lords are entangled with each other, much in the same manner they had been apart by—natural, cyclical, inevitable.  

There is a part of Voldemort that never wants this dream to end, now—a very small part, but there and whispering all the same. It is a strange thing, to be so sure of someone’s unconditional devotion and love for him. Such knowledge _does_ things, he knows—like cause wars and death and decay. People would kill for loyalty like that—people _have_. And now, he thinks, he can somewhat understand them, because that small part of him has learned to crave it.

Tom’s emotions fill his bosom so much so that he can no longer separate them from his own inside this dream. Is it a dream, he wonders, is it a memory? Voldemort doesn’t know anymore. Harry feels so _real_ in his arms, this world feels so _real_ —at the same time as it is illusory, whenever he discovers another piece of it that he cannot recall inside his own memory.

“Voldemort,” he thinks he hears Harry whisper. “ _Voldemort_ …”

Not Tom. Not Tom. Not Tom…

He knows the difference, Voldemort thinks. We are different. Not the same. Not a dream. Not a memory. Not Tom.

“I love you,” Harry confesses, mouthing the words against his shoulder.

“I _adore you_ , love,” Voldemort mumbles back, pressing a kiss against a blood red scar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy early Valentines Day! I don't think I'll be able to post on that day, so here you guys go! Anyway...
> 
> Who thinks Voldemort should get the hell out of there?  
> -slowly raises hand-  
> -...slowly lowers hand because she ships it- 
> 
> A few interesting things happen in this chapter. Okay, a whole lot of interesting things happen. You'd think the meeting between Harry and Tom would go differently, but it just goes to show how in-control of his insanity Harry is. (Nudge nudge wink wink hint hint hint)
> 
> I'm really surprised no one has made a comment on how creepy yandere!Harry is. lol
> 
> Anyway, obligatory YOU CAN VOTE ON THE FINAL PAIRING OF THIS FIC to resolve the love triangle, either no final pairing, TMR/HP, LV/HP, or TMR/HP/LV. You can change your vote at any time BEFORE the final chapter (aka ch 9), and I'll be going with majority vote. You can check out vote count in the comments below, the MOST RECENT voter will have it as a reply~


	6. I think I know enough of hate...

_There is ice._

_Tom arrives in a world white and pure as the snow that blankets it._

He doesn't much care for the ice—no, he's spent far too much time around it to care for it—but the world is fitting, and certainly unsurprising to Harry’s tastes, so he doesn't think much of it.

So close—he is so, _so_ close to his beloved again. It's felt like ages, _has been_ ages, and he wonders how Harry is. They are Embodiments—they do not change—but Harry… Harry has always been a wild card. The universe’s laws seem to bend to him. Tom is suddenly filled to the brim with excitement just thinking about it.

Harry, _his_ Harry—his creature, his light. How is he, he wonders. Soon, he will find out.

Tom makes a slice in the air, and slides through the cut. It will take him where Harry is. On the other side is more white and cold, though there is a certain stillness that seems supernatural. Not even the air moves as a breeze or a gust, and not even the trees dare droop under the weight of the snow. There is no presence of animals, bird or hare, but this does not bother Tom in the least.

It isn't natural, but it isn't something that draws his attention either. All he can think of is seeing Harry.

He walks across a flawless field of ice toward the cottage on the hill. His feet will always lead him to his other half.

It is something not especially curious, but indeed noteworthy that Harry has chosen to take physical form. The Embodiments can choose to reside in the skies above a world or in the physical realm of it—usually, before their separation, Tom and Harry took preference in the former. But it takes the balance of them both—two halves of a whole, they are not complete enough without each other’s energies to ascend otherwise.

The fact that Harry is residing in the latter… Probably he is waiting for Tom. And the other reason… Tom does not know how long exactly he has been gone. For awhile, yes, but—if the case is that Harry cannot ascend because the essence of Tom’s aura has already burned away from him like it has for his on Tom…

That is the worst case scenario, Tom thinks with a shudder. Because the other’s aura acts as a buffer, even if it is only the remnants of an essence—without it, there would be nothing to counter their purity of light or purity of dark. It is, essentially, an imbalance, and that is what causes the physical agony when they are apart for too long. Tom has weathered it for a very long time, but time is relative—he had not fully considered whether or not Harry’s time flew faster or the same as his—

A frightening dread begins to seep into his being.

His pace quickens. He cannot afford to be away from his light for a moment further.

The door is unlocked. Tom throws it open.

He expects to see Harry, expects to see his lover throwing himself at him with arms wide and smile on his face. Tom expects everything _but_ an empty house—but that is exactly what he gets.

“Harry?”

No answer. Tom travels further into the house, too weak to spread his senses out to search magically. Instead, he lets his feet guide him, like a mortal—like the first time he met Harry, except not with such a growing fear as this. Yes, fear—he accepts this, as much as he accepts the legitimate fear he had felt upon discovering the plot to destroy his existence. The difference is there is no rush of anger this time, just a cold chill foreign to his soul where every instance of frozen wasteland should be familiar.

He reaches a bedroom door. This time, Tom opens it slowly, afraid of what he may find.

“Harry?”

No answer.

He expects desolation—something to freeze his body over until the end of time. Tom expects the unknown—perhaps for eternity. How long _has it_ been since he’s left? Dear Merlin, he doesn't know—doesn't, can't, never figured—he just… just doesn't know. But he wishes he did, wishes he does, wishes that their separation hadn't been required for _safety_ —

How could he allow even the slightest _chance_ of his light being destroyed? He couldn't. If they had been together, it would've been all the easier to be erased—simultaneously, the key had been _simultaneously_ —

Tom steps inside the room. His eyes lock onto the frozen figure on the bed, so small compared to the mattress and bedding he lied upon. Tom feels his heart stop.

“Harry?”

The Embodiment of Light does not move. Still, he is still, like time, like his heart, like his breath and the snow and the _world_ —

Tom approaches the bed. If… If it has been so long that Harry has plunged into a healing sleep… His magic’s attempt at tethering his existence to the universe… If it has gotten _that_ bad and _that_ much time has passed…

Tom isn't sure _what_ he can do.

“Harry,” he calls again, soft and hollow this time—Tom does not expect a reply. He simply wants to hear the name of his love on his tongue again. The Embodiment of Dark sits down on the bed, moving to loom over the still body. He is searching for a sign— _any_ sign of life.

Tom touches his cheek. “Harry, my light—” the next words are strangled, breathless and whispered, “ _wake up_.”

There is a pause of nothingness, and then Harry’s eyes shift behind his eyelids. Tom starts breathing again.

“Cold…” his still lips move, “Tom?”

“Yes, love,” Tom whispers, “I'm here.” His hand moves to cup Harry’s burning cheek.

The Embodiment of Light sighs, relieved and content. Tom fears for a second that he won't open his eyes and show him that familiar green sight, but he does, and it feels like the agony is over—they are together again, at last. _At last_ , Tom thinks, and forever, even if he has to supplicate himself in front of the highest power. Such a vow coming from him is not to be taken lightly, if made, but it is _worth_ every bit. Harry is with him now, completing him; two halves of a whole—

“Where were you?” Harry murmurs. Tom’s fingers brush over his burning lips. The contrast in temperature relaxes them both. _Together again. Forever._

“…It doesn't matter,” Tom says, and he means it. Everything is over, he is back where he should be, and Harry is safe. Together they are unstoppable—Harry is _safe_. Why should what happened in the past, that which no longer threatens them, _matter_? It _doesn't_ , and Tom’s sure, in his exhaustion and relief and blinding love, that Harry feels the same way.

All that matters is now.

Something moves in the Embodiment of Light’s eyes, something sinister, but Tom doesn't catch it. If he did, he would’ve known it was the wrong thing to say. Maybe if he caught it, his fate would’ve been changed— _worlds_ would've been saved—but he doesn't. So it doesn't.

Harry smiles and kisses him. “I missed you.”

“And I you. I won't leave again for all the world.”

“Yes…”

Tom thinks that he's finally found his bliss again. They complete each other, tangled in sheets and magic and _soul_ , and the Embodiment of Dark doesn't think much of anything, resting his weary half soul in his sanctuary of the other.

His eyes are closed and his mind is at ease until he hears the sound of a knife being unsheathed, some times later.

Tom blinks, turning his head over. His aura is in the process of being twined with Harry’s, slowly recovering from the damages caused by their separation. He is significantly stronger now, but it isn't hard to be that considering how weak he had been when entering this world. Something in his senses goes off like an alarm, and Tom tries to focus on… Harry’s back?

When did he get up?

“Harry?” Tom calls, confusion and something like unease beginning to build. He sees Harry drawing a knife from a leather sheathe, but sees no more from his angle.

“You know, Tom,” the Embodiment of Light begins, “Part of me wishes you simply left the job unfinished, so I could rot here and maybe even sleep for the rest of eternity… but I know that sort of sloppiness doesn't exist in you. You always finish the job. That's why I knew you'd come back, no matter how long it took.”

Tom makes a sound at the back of his throat. “Of course I would—why would I ever leave you alone for eternity?”

“Yes…” Harry replies, hollow with the same sharpness of the blade in his hand. “You always finish what you've started. That's my faith in you, Tom—the only thing I have left.”

“Pardon?”

Harry smiles. He turns around, slowly crawling back over to straddle his dark. Tom puts up no resistance, still completely lost and confused. “That's why I know you’ll always come back to me, even when you run.”

“Why would I run? From who?”

“ _Me._ ”

A thick, heavy aura fills the room. Tom almost chokes—it is Harry’s, still strong and powerful even though he had assumed the Embodiment is as weak as or even weaker than he. Hadn't he been in a healing sleep— _no,_ this sort of power is not recovered so easily. The only reason for it would be that Harry has never been weakened in the first place. But how is that possible?

“I don’t want to kill you, Tom. No, even though you want to kill _me_ , I can assure you I don't want to kill _you_ … That's why I'll have you suffer with me, for the rest of eternity.”

“What—preposterous— _Harry_ —”

“Because, you know, over the years you've made me so selfish… Spoiled me, really. A bit too much. So now, you see, if I can't have your heart, that’s fine—I'll just own everything else. You can't escape, Tom—not from me. It's the only way I can make sure all of your attention stays where it rightfully should be. Isn't this interesting, love? Have I piqued that lovely competitive side of yours yet? We’ll battle for eternity—together, in the spiral of absolute despair—you won't have to hide it anymore, sweetheart—you can make me _scream_ now—”

“—You—”

“This used to be an ordinary knife, but I took the liberty of making it a ritual knife.” Harry smiles. “Tell me, do you like the battlefield that I've made us? It'll be our first.”

It is only now, perhaps too late, that Tom feels the effects of an illusion fall. It's stupid to let his attention fall off Harry, but it does as the smell of smoke and rust fills his nose. _Blood_. Tom looks around. He sees dried blood splattered on the walls, coated like an incomplete paint job. He looks outside and sees smoke and fire.

It isn't _cold_ , this world is _burning_. The snow—the ice—an _illusion_ —

And then Harry’s aura. Again, something he notices too late—there is a darkness hanging around him that Tom knows isn't _his_. No, it isn't his at all—he feels the agony, despair, tormented anguish in it, and he _knows_. It isn't _his_ darkness—he knows what it is. He knows what Harry has done to keep his powers at full strength—the blood on the walls, he _knows_.

“Come, my dark, let's _play_. I even gave you some energy to try and fight me off with. Isn't this exciting?” When Tom doesn't reply, Harry shrugs and moves on. “First, let's see how _you_ like it when your other half turns against you… Are you ready to burn, Tom? No permanent damage, I promise.”

The sting of Harry’s light begins to scorch the very surface of Tom’s aura. It's progress is purposely slow, gradual, a torturous build to a pain that the Embodiment of Dark knows will scar his heart, if not his body.

“What have you done?” Tom whispers.

Harry smiles. “I love you,” he says, and Tom believes him.

_The cold steel bites into his warmed flesh, once kissed by the lips of an equally ruined shade. Two halves of a soul; no longer..._

_There is fire, and all Tom knows is misery and oblivion locked in the duel against his beloved._

* * *

Harry stands alone, in the middle of a room as his outstretched hand controls an invisible thread. It is the thread of a dream—no, not a dream, a nightmare—a horrid, vapid old memory that Harry does not value but _Tom_ does.

It had been an anticlimactic ending—a beginning to a new chapter, to be sure, but after it had started the fresh excitement of starting the hunt dulled to make way for the actual _game_. Yes—it had been nothing but a confirmation, that time, that memory. Harry doesn’t care much for it.

But Tom does. _Tom_ does. Because that time for him was a realization—had to be, Harry thinks, _had to be_ a realization—that his plans weren’t going to work. It had been a realization that no, Harry was not clueless, was not _patiently_ waiting for him like a _fool_ —no, Harry was ready, ready to do _battle_. To wage _war_. To _survive_ —long enough, oh just long enough to bring Tom down with him. That, Harry thinks, is the truth of the matter—why Tom fears this memory so, detests this nightmare, and why it is all the better of a choice to torment him with.

Still. Harry wrinkles his nose. An irrational hate wells within him—he hates the stillness of this night. Why, well he doesn’t know but he _despises_ it now.

“I waited,” he says aloud; in the stillness of the night it is a confession of regret—regret of the follies of a time before. “For so long, I waited. For the last _eternity of my life_ , I waited. And what memories of happiness did I have—millennia’s worth, to be sure, but what were they _really_ worth in the face of misery? What memories of happiness could’ve comforted me then, when compared to that _smile_ of _accomplishment_ upon your face? That wretched, horrid smile—treacherous, for it revealed all your plans to your previously unwitting victim—yes, how could _any_ memory comfort me then?

“But my trust in you was total. Complete. Unending, bottomless and untainted as my magic had been. So I waited. I expected you to come back and give me an answer—find me, search me out, hold me in your arms again and tell me why you left. But you never did. Even as the infernos of my magic bathed me in the agonies of a divinity’s wrath, you never did. And all throughout that time, your smile—the last memory I had of you— _taunted me_ , like a bitter shade of a king. I waited. You never came.

“I needed the time, I suppose. I can thank you for that—for taking so long to come back, so long that I figured you never would—yes, only then was I able to shed away the shackles of your influence. Only then was I able to free myself from your deception. I still waited, but for a different purpose then—for vengeance. The best kind, you know. The kind that makes one _ruthless_. You used to say you loved that part of me—that part that had restraint, that knew the difference between justice and a _just_ justice—perhaps you lied about that, too. But it doesn’t matter. I rid myself of my fool’s disposition, all for you.

“This is how we’re supposed to be. Two halves of misery, locked in a battle of eternity until, damaged and unyielding, we fade. Together. That’s how we’re supposed to be. I know now. It was foolish to think we could be anything else. Oh how I love you so—you know, don’t you, you can see it? Feel it?—and how I know you too loved me as you plotted my death. As you hated me, you loved me, as you thought me worth not even to kiss the ground you walked upon, you thought me worthy enough of an opponent to kiss your lips. Yes, I know—you started the game first, didn’t you? But now I’ve learned the rules. And now it’s my turn to win.”

The night is still. Harry flexes his outstretched hand, eyes seeing the intangible and invisible with the curious, innocent look of a child’s. Fixated. Enchanted. Capable of great sins and great virtues.

“How do I want this tragedy to end? Why, with despair of course. Misery. So empty that we’re filled with fulfillment! We’ll be two absolutes, standing on opposite sides until we reach the middle—the center, where no one knows where one ends and the other begins—and then, together, we’ll fade into the oblivion. Fighting, dying, surviving until we simply… aren’t. That’s how we’re supposed to be, I know—I see it now—but until then… I simply can’t allow myself to lose any longer. That’s why I’m winning now, you see.

“Defeat doesn’t become me. Victory’s a much better shade, don’t you think? It pairs well with my eyes.”

* * *

Voldemort wakes feeling the touch of dreams still in his consciousness, but cannot seem to grasp any of it. Something light and soft, pleasant, but what it is he cannot recall. It is something important, surely—and that something now lies in his breast, warming with considerable weight to keep him to the bed.

He turns his head.

Nothing is there.

But what is this feeling—this feeling that someone _should_ be there? All very impossible, of course, because the Dark Lord does not take people _to his bed_ —the thought is ridiculous. Only people seeking death would let others _sleep in their bed_.

How strange.

He cannot bring himself to be worried about it, because as the morning strengthens, so too does the dream fade until he cannot remember even a speck of it.Tom is also unusually silent and somber; he offers no information so Voldemort doesn't bother asking.

Odd… What is he going to do today?

Something licks at his memory, a pitiful pet in the cage of his mind—no, certainly, there should be nothing—wait, nothing? _Nothing?_ Surely not that either… But whatever it had been has now been whisked away on the back of steeds of sea and sky, charmed from their previous path by the night-mares that swarmed him. Night-mares? No, he'd been having a pleasant dream…

What was he planning to do today…?

Voldemort cannot say. He rises, wakes, and goes to haunt the hallways.

* * *

Falling in love for Voldemort is a tall task. An  _impossible_ task—higher than he’s ever flown, than he’s ever  _cared_ to fly, unlike Icarus, that foolish boy—yes,  _love_ and  _Voldemort_ don’t go together in the same sentence, unless the sentence is “Voldemort does not love.”

It is a fact. Voldemort has always _considered_ it a fact. So why does the pebble of his heart, cold and infinitesimally small, warm at the grace of a smile; why does the smooth texture that _should_ repel _accept touch_ instead? Why does he consider taking that pebble up in his hand and skipping it off onto the waters toward that sun, the horizon, a break in the night that he’s always preferred—

Why does his heart breathe again, he wonders, around Harry Potter?

 _Love_. What kind of disgusting notion is _that_? But sneer all he likes; there is something uncomfortable about the word that the Dark Lord cannot deny. Because Harry Potter isn’t just the Embodiment of Light, Harry Potter isn’t just _someone else’s_ , Harry Potter isn’t just an insane _god_ set on killing him—

Harry Potter smiles, sometimes. Harry Potter is in pain—ah, yes, he can see it in his eyes—and when Voldemort graces him with a touch or a word in those brief moments of vulnerability, Harry Potter looks at him with such a genuine affection there can be little mistake. Harry Potter is utterly in love with him. Voldemort is _sure_.

…Perhaps he should start over.

Voldemort admits he is a naturally curious person. His lust for knowledge—because what is knowledge, if not power?—feeds that attribute fairly well. So upon discovering some multi-faceted _personality_ to a previously predictable and two-dimensional creature such as the Embodiment of Light, the Dark Lord had worked to… _bring it out_ more often, so to speak. In brief moments, in extended conversations, in comments or in actions—little things that serve to attract the _other_ part of the Embodiment of Light.

The other _soul_ within the god, he thinks. It _has_ to be another person entirely. Harry Potter and the Embodiment of Light. Voldemort thinks that _this_ is where Tom Riddle has gone wrong—he has assumed Harry Potter and the Embodiment of Light are _one_. They are not. They _can’t_ be.

He’s worked it all out. The Embodiment of Light, the dominant one, is suppressing Harry Potter. Furious that Tom Riddle is in love with the latter, the Embodiment of Light seeks to _destroy_ Harry Potter completely, but upon finding that he can’t, settles for tormenting the one he claims to love in a sick and twisted display of affection that Voldemort is accustomed to seeing. Simple. Clean. Not so obvious, but naturally it wasn’t—Voldemort is a bit smug at working it all out while his counterpart stays blind to the truth.

Yes. _This_ is the answer. The way to win the game is to make _Harry Potter_ win. The Embodiment of Light is not infallible—his failure to obtain Tom Riddle proves that. All Voldemort has to do is make Harry Potter fight, and Harry Potter _win_. And to do that, Harry Potter must fall in love with him. He already has.

Because if Harry loves him, _wouldn’t_ his _primary_ goal be to defeat the other part of him that seeks to _kill_ the Dark Lord? That certainly would be what the Harry Potter of _his_ world—when he was still alive, at least—would do. Voldemort is back on somewhat familiar territory now. Everything is clear. He knows what he has to do, and he doesn’t _need_ _Tom_ to do it.

Tom failed because he couldn’t grasp the concept of weak, pathetic, _lovesick_ fools—that is, “to be loved as they were.” Personally, Voldemort sneers and curses all such ridiculous thoughts, but he can see how they can manipulate someone. Surely, Harry Potter cannot bear the thought that Tom Riddle does not see him as separate from the Embodiment of Light—thusly he does not love Tom, and as such, is not motivated to overcome his other half.

 _Voldemort_ , on the other hand, sees him. He _knows_ Harry knows he can see him. Slowly, delicately, he will peel away the petals of the closed flower bud… to unleash the _terrifying beast_ within. This is how Voldemort knows he will win.

The plan is perfect. Except for the part where his heart betrays him, that is.

It is difficult to describe such a thing. Harry makes him feel—he makes him _feel_. Calm. At peace. At rest. And then intrigued and amused and irritated but there’s something about it all, how quickly Harry Potter can play him like a flick of a _lumos_ and then a call for _nox_ , that makes Voldemort know he’s in trouble. That’s the plainest, most rudimentary way he can phrase it—the Dark Lord is in trouble, and nothing good comes out of _that_.

Harry doesn’t even know what he’s doing, probably. He’s in love, Voldemort knows, but the sort of love that is resigned to simply existing. Harry is dealing with other things, like an aching pain reflected in his countenance and his eyes, a heavy weight upon his shoulders that is most evident when he sighs, a sort of regret and perpetual farewell written in the movement of his lips and the way his voice occasionally turns toward being soft and hollow.

…There is trouble, and Voldemort is currently in it.

“Do you ever wonder what makes one world different from another?” Harry asks, walking along beside him outside on the grounds. They are upgrading the wards, or supposed to be, but Voldemort is more interested in making Harry “switch”—as he has—and Harry is more interested in the Dark Lord.

“In each world… Why are there so many different versions of the same person? Shouldn’t they be all the same? What makes them different? Why do events change? Is there a ‘right’ path? Even the gods do not hold all the answers… so what hope is there for humanity?” A distant look eclipses Harry’s face. “What binds us here—what is the difference between _existing_ and simply… not? Can we fade in and out, or are we forever definite?”

“It bothers you,” Voldemort says, pausing in his walk.

Harry stops as well. “Yes,” he says, turning to the Dark Lord, “it does. It has. Trapped in long, endless periods of wakefulness, unable to sleep—perhaps that’s why humans require it. Surely they would go insane without it. The quality that makes us gods—that raises us above all other mortals—it is a stronger essence than what makes man, man. And yet I find myself craving what they have, yearning to _not_ be so strong…”

“Power is control,” Voldemort says. “You can be strong and have none, or you can be weak and have all. Power means choices. Perhaps gods are not so omnipotent after all, if they— _we_ have no choice to rest.”

Harry nods. “For the Embodiments,” he begins, “who have been borne from mortality, there _is_ no rest because we have none that we are accustomed to. It is only companionship that keeps us sane…” He sighs, breath a feather-light brush upon his lips. Voldemort watches with keen interest as those lips part and the small gust departs.

“Do you think I’m selfish, Voldemort?”

“Pardon?”

“They say if a god is pleased, so too is the world and its inhabitants pleased.  But—” Harry shakes his head. “Never mind. What _am_ I thinking? A god is never wrong, after all.”

He begins to walk forward again, but Voldemort stops him from advancing too far. “You are,” he replies, “but it is not ill-intentioned.”

Harry’s incredulous eyes meet the Dark Lord’s steady pair. “ _Oh_? How do you figure?”

“If gods were not selfish creatures, they would lose their form of existence. They would fade, combine, become one with their world and cease to have conscious thought or individuality. It is their selfishness that keeps them— _us_ “living,” in a sense.” Voldemort pauses, focus on his companion, “Do you want to live, Harry?”

The Embodiment turns away. “What a silly question,” he says, a tad too quick, “Absurd. Who wouldn’t want to live? Come, Voldemort, let’s go—”

“I had a strange dream last night, my light,” the Dark Lord says, “Not just the last night… the night before that as well; several, I think. For weeks now.”

“What did you dream?”

“I cannot recall precisely. But peace, some notion of pleasantness, a sensation of _living_ in the heart of forever. Absolute joy—” he pauses, “—yes… that. Strange, is it not?”

“Perhaps you were reminiscing,” Harry offers softly, “or seeing the future as you rested. Seeing _our_ future. We still have forever left to go, my dark.”

Voldemort does not stop him from approaching, does not stop him from gently taking his hand, and does not stop him from pressing a kiss against his jaw. Overall he is unsurprised at the motion, as if it is familiar, as if it has been done a _thousand_ —no, a _million_ times before… And he knows what comes afterward, as well.

“Don’t worry about the dreams, dearest dark,” Harry murmurs, the words on his tongue mirrored in Voldemort’s thoughts. They are the same. He knows they are coming. So familiar… “I am sure they are simply that—your mind reminding you of our better days.” He smiles then, fond and affectionate, close-lipped and so _different_ from the Embodiment of Light’s cruel, sickening smile that Voldemort believes him.

“Are you well?” he asks.

Harry’s eyes show his surprise.  He laughs, small, light, no longer than a breath, and answers, “Just as well as you are, Voldemort. How strange of you to ask.”

“Not strange at all,” the Dark Lord denies, and manages to catch the tail end of a curious look that crosses his companion’s face. Surprise, relief, peace and pain, all mingled together.

 _Fall in love with me_ , Voldemort thinks, _because my heart cannot bear anything less_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was soooo hard to write like you couldn't believeeeee :(
> 
> Sorry I skipped a lot in my head lol... mainly the hard details of the interactions between LV and sane!Harry that makes the former fall in love, but those you don't really need to know! Besides, I gave you the main "deets" on _how_ LV became... _acclimated_ to fall in love with Harry. Not that he's in too deep atm, but it's pretty inevitable the way Harry's pulling the strings.
> 
> If you HAVEN'T realized what's happening, LV is falling in love with Harry through mainly the dreams Harry is causing (which are different from the nightmares/memories he's making TMR dream), added with little things in reality to make it smoother less suspicious. 
> 
> Man, this was difficult to write ._." Also it's near end of school time for me so I'm doing a lot of crunch-time studying and reviewing D: Sorry for lack of stuff. I think I started this chapter two months ago when the last chapter came out, but only finished now because I haven't had time to sit down and write more than a few sentences every other day lol...
> 
> Anyway, here you go. Remember, you can VOTE for the resolution of the love triangle we have going on--AKA END GAME PAIRING! It can be either TMR/HP, LV/HP, TMR/HP/LV 3some, or NO final pairing (aka tragic end). I'm taking votes until CHAPTER 9 (aka final chapter) has been posted! And you can change your vote any time before that! The current vote tally is IN THE COMMENTS as the MOST RECENT REPLY to the MOST RECENT VOTE! Thanks c:


	7. To say that for destruction ice...

_There is fire._

_As the world burns, the Embodiment of Light weeps and there is fire._

Harry stumbles.

 _There is fire_ , and the world is burning, and there is no one left—the screams, oh the _screams_ have long since faded—no one left but him.

There is so, _so much_ fire.

And how unbearably _hot_ it is. Harry coughs, curling in upon himself as he tries to stifle his tears. While the flames don't burn him too badly— _he’s_ the one hotter than _them_ , after all—the press of the dry air is uncomfortable, and the previous rubbing at his human eyes had made him cry. How troublesome the mortal body is, Harry thinks, and tries to wipe away the warm tears again.

Harry lets himself fully collapse, curled up on the ground as the flames roar above him. Like a wild animal, he thinks, like a cage. But there is no key for him here. All there is…is a slowly dying hope. He’s been stupid again, hasn't he? He should've—by the gods, he _should've_ planned it all better! Now he’s stuck here, _waiting_ , when this all could've gone by much faster if he’d forged a path. Made a few signs. Put in a bit more _effort._

But he’s been here for _decades_. He hadn’t _wanted_ to put in more effort—this trial, this experiment, it should be done already. Harry wants to know if he was successful or not—should move on or not. And honestly, his feelings were mixed about this one. Sometimes he felt so _certain_ … And sometimes he wanted to slit his damn throat and finish it already.

…How many years had it been? Certainly not more than forty, but his _last_ two had been hardly five years in comparison, which has probably made him impatient.

A part of Harry despairs. Has been wallowing in despair for awhile now, actually. _Is it over yet?_ it cries. _Can I rest now? No… Where is he? He should be here by now. Have I been abandoned? Has Tom—_

…No. Harry looks up at the sky, eclipsed in flames and smoke. His pulse quickens, and as a release of the final puff of hope he has, Harry lets it go; opens the cage of his throat and bids farewell to it in some old melody. Over the years he’d learned so many different hymns and psalms and lyrics that they all seemed to mesh together in his memory now, but occasionally one would rise to the surface, like the tide of waves, and he’d be tempted to echo it. Echo the times past already, and call warning to the times to be.

 “Harry?!”

At the almost panicked, familiar voice, Harry abruptly halts his song and unfurls himself. He turns his head back and forth, looking at the edges of the jagged pit he is in for the possessor of that voice. When he doesn't see anyone, only then does he reply by calling back, “Marvolo?”

“Harry? Where are you?”

Closer. _Closer_. Hope returns to him. “Here!” he quickly answers, “Here! Come quickly, Marvolo! I'm down here!”

He sees someone approach through the smoke. Marvolo coughs, but waves a hand and the bothersome smog and flames depart from him. “Harry? What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” Harry says, voice dropping to a hollow softness. “Always waiting for you. Marvolo, let's leave this place together.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This world,” Harry begins, “is doomed. There's no where left to go here. But if we leave—if we go together—”

“…Together?”

“Yes!” He cries impatiently. “Together! As we should be! Won't you help me, Marvolo? It's so dreadfully _hot_ down here, and I—”

“Why can't you get out by yourself?” Marvolo asks, suspicious.

“Wha—does it matter?”

“If I'm to get you out, I have to know what's stopping me, don't I?”

“Give me your hand!” Harry begs, motioning him further along a ledge until the very tip. “Yes—yes, there! Give me your hand!”

But Marvolo does not. “You’ll pull me in, won't you?” he slowly asks. “You’re planning to kill me, aren't you? I was _warned_ —”

“No,” Harry whispers, shaking his head. “I won't! No!”

“You are! You know very well that _I_ can't make it through that fire! But _you_ — _you_ should be able to! That's what he told me! That's what he _warned_ —” Marvolo abruptly stops. Instead, he looks down at his lover, reaching a hand out for him with pleading eyes, _begging_ , shaking his head, mouthing _no, no, no, please, don't you love me?_ And then he turns away.

“Marvolo…?”

“He warned me years ago about you. I should've listened to him—but I didn't. However, it's not too late—I can still _live_ —”

“We can live together,” Harry says softly, “together, in the next world… Won't you come with me, Marvolo?”

Marvolo scoffs. “You always thought you were one step ahead. But you weren't. _I_ was. In everything. It was enjoyable while it lasted, Harry—but I always knew not to trust your false devotion. You're sixty years too early to think you can fool _me_. Farewell.”

 _Harry watches as the figure disappears, and in the pit of brimstone and sulfur and_ fire, _there is the sound of hysterical laughter. Of hysterical tears._

_There is fire, and Marvolo is too weak to see it._

* * *

Harry returns to his body with sharp laughter trapped at the back of his throat and a snarl pulling back his lips. He’d been careless—manipulating Voldemort’s dreams and Tom’s visions had also made him vulnerable to his own.

He disliked thinking back on _then_. When he’d still been grossly inexperienced to playing the game, and he’d still needed to _experiment_ with different methods to charm the Dark Lord’s heart away. Now, of course, he did whatever fit his fancy, but back then—

He’d made too many mistakes. He didn't _take_ enough. The Toms, the Voldemorts, the Marvolos of the world still had enough independent thought to break free of him then—but _now_ , no longer. Now they could not leave him so carelessly. It would destroy them if they stayed, destroyed them if they left. Harry tied them to him to continue the circle of despair until their death—which, comparably, is usually soon after the “grand reveal.”

Well, he doesn't need them anyway once he's through with them. Better to let them burn in their world as he leaves to the next one. In the end, it doesn't matter if he can't convince them to take his hand—back when he was experimenting, it _mattered_ , but now it doesn't. Now it doesn't matter if he fails that step. That he's _always_ failed that step. His heart is already broken enough that it doesn't matter anymore.

What does it matter, really? He is so, so numb to the pain now. Nothing can hurt him, and even if something does, the pain doesn't last long. He’s a god. He always heals.

 _Always_.

The Embodiment of Light sighs. He can't slack at this part—the most integral part. To ensure he wins this round, it is absolutely necessary that his opponent is… disabled. He must ruin Tom’s chances of winning because Tom is nothing but stubborn, and underestimating the quality that has gotten him this far would be deadly. So he must make Tom frantic, _yes_ —frantic, because he knows Tom grows terribly secretive when he’s frantic.

And at the same time, he must feed the distrust blooming between the Dark Lord and the Embodiment of Dark. Must make it so Voldemort turns to _Harry_. That way, Tom grows weak. He is not yet recovered and Harry is determined to make it so he _never_ fully recovers in this world.

That is how one wins the game.

Harry flicks his wrist and expands his threads again. There are dreams to manipulate—oh, and if they manage to snare him too in their grasp, it will be worth it.

 _Soon, Voldemort, you will be mine_.

* * *

In his sleep, Voldemort dreams.

At first, he thought the dreams were memories—couldn’t remember, can’t remember, and yet the feeling is _there_ —memories of Tom and his blissful life with Harry Potter. But night after night the dreams began to separate, becoming something wholly different than a mere memory.

Still, the out-of-body experience remains. Still, he cannot vividly recall his dream upon waking. Still—

Yes, there are many ‘ _still_ ’s, but there are just as many ‘ _now_ ’s.

He’s in his own head now. Can’t feel Tom at all, either at the fringes of his mind or present and overpowering like the sun. Voldemort is alone here. His dream is his own—it should be, anyway. Before Tom, Voldemort’s mind was a fortress that no one could ever boast of penetrating. All those who did were dead.

…It’s true, so there shouldn’t be any hesitation in claiming that, but…

The Embodiment of Light is a figure he both forgets and is all too aware of, here in his dreams. Harry Potter fades in and out, entwined like a garden of vines in his thoughts. One moment he is a hazy, indiscriminate fog, the next he is clear and smiling and _there_. And Voldemort remembers none of it; can only live in the present, as it is.

Perhaps if he remembered, he could’ve saved himself.

But he can’t.

And then the wariness fades away again, and Voldemort is at peace.

“Where are you going?”

The Dark Lord turns around, only then taking in his surroundings. He is in a clearing of some sort; a field, surrounded by trees so far away he does not bother thinking of them. Behind him, standing in his usual black robes—no, aren’t they supposed to be white? But he has no proof of that; has never _seen_ Harry wearing white before—is Harry Potter.

“Are you going away from me?”

Voldemort does not want to say ‘no’, but that is the truth he finds on his lips. He stays silent instead.

Harry tilts his head to the side, observing. “I see,” he says after a moment. “You’re being pulled away from me.”

There is a confliction between ‘no’ and ‘yes’—Voldemort no longer knows which is true, and so he cannot lie because he does not know _which_ is the lie.

“But you know,” Harry begins again, “your soul and mine… We resemble the pull of the sea. One of us may leave, but we will always come back with the tide. Back and forth, back and forth—there will be no end to us.”

“Don’t you mean Tom?”

Harry smiles. Voldemort doesn’t want to hear it—he knows what will be said— _the same, it is the same_ —but it isn’t. He doesn’t want it to be. Voldemort is not Tom, and Tom is not Voldemort. What they share does not make them the same person.

He wants Harry to understand, more than anything.

“Perhaps,” Harry says, “and perhaps not. Who can say, truly? The argument can be made for me as well—who does Harry Potter come back to, always? No matter what universe? Does it matter if it’s one that belongs to a different dimension? Is the pull limited to one and only one, or is it indiscriminate—does it only have to be Tom Marvolo Riddle at the other end of the string?”

Voldemort is quiet.

“I have asked myself this question for a very long time. Does it matter? I want the answer to be ‘yes’. I am scared of it being ‘no’, because that is a very real possibility. Thenceforth I act as if both are true, to discover the true answer… if there is one.”

“Which one are you?” the Dark Lord asks. “Harry Potter, or the Embodiment of Light?”

Harry smiles again, slower this time with the creeping pace of an omniscient being. “Can you tell? Are they different? Does it matter?”

“Yes,” Voldemort answers without hesitation.

“Are you sure? Do emotions cloud your answer, or are they reasonable and logical?”

“How does one tell one person from the next?” Voldemort retorts. “Not by names, if they are strangers. Not by sight, if we are blind. Not by hearing, if they say not a word. Not by smell, if we stand too far away. We know because one person cannot exist in two places at the same time.”

“That is not reasonable at all. You have not taken into consideration parallel dimensions.”

“No, it is perfectly sound,” Voldemort replies. “All the Harry Potters, all the Tom Riddles, all of us are not the same. We are all different. You feel it, but refuse to accept it—there is no copy of your Tom Riddle in all the dimensions you cross, and just the same there is no exact copy of the Harry Potter I killed in any of the dimensions that exist. You know it to be true, but you cannot accept it if it is.”

“So what makes them take on the same name? Why are they born to the same parents, every single time? What binds the two across time and space? Dimensions? _Why can their fate not be changed_?”

“You are Harry Potter,” Voldemort states confidently.

Harry smiles, broken this time. “You see? We always play the same game. Never are we released from this pit of doom. _You_ will never see me, and _Tom_ will always see too much of me. Harry Potter will always be fated for agony and misery. In the end, he will always ask why he is alive, and then he will wish to die without the means to. That is the nature of our bond.”

The Embodiment of Light looks skyward, but sees no sky above. “You should run, you know,” he continues, “I have drawn you in. I will devour you. If you run, maybe I will exist long enough from my hate to figure out how to die.”

“Do you love?”

“Too much—so much, that one can argue not at all.”

Voldemort, for once, understands—not because he sympathizes, not because he pities, but because he has discerned the true nature of Harry Potter. Unfortunately, he knows he will forget. He knows he has figured out too soon.

“I have loved too late,” he says, knowing these words are meant for the only one who will remember. “That is my nature; across time, across space, across dimensions. I have loved so late, that you often argue that I have not loved at all.”

Harry starts, eyes wide as he turns his gaze back to the Dark Lord. “What?” he whispers.

The dream ends. Voldemort forgets.

Harry wavers.

_But the game must continue._

* * *

As per Tom’s advice, Voldemort hunts for the Cloak of Invisibility. He obtains it—fairly easily, considering the fact that it _is_ the Boy-Who-Lived’s tomb—but encounters Dumbledore and the rest of the Order of the Phoenix on the way out. His Death Eaters are behind him, already prepared for the battle about to happen.

“Tom… How dare you defile the resting place of an innocent.” Dumbledore shakes his head across the field.

Voldemort sneers. The name _Tom_ means something entirely different to him now—still, it grates on his nerves to be called something he isn’t. He is _Voldemort_ , the Dark Lord! Nothing else. _Never_ anything else anymore. “He was my enemy,” he says, “ _I killed him_. I have more right than anyone else in his tomb—not that I would need any in the first place. You think you can stop me, Albus?”

The headmaster’s eyes flash behind his glasses. It is the first time in a long while that Dumbledore has visibly shown his anger—Harry Potter, after all, was his student—he considered him his _grandson_ , so dear was and is the boy to his heart. “This time, you push too far.”

The battle begins.

Spells of all sorts of colors—fiery red, sickening yellow, ominous purple and suspicious green—fly across the battlefield. There are the sounds of war, screams and shouts and explosions. Distinctly, there is Bellatrix’s cackle, Barty’s following laughter, a sharp slash slicing bodies and air that he knows comes from Lucius Malfoy’s wand. Voldemort breathes in through his slit-nostrils and manically grins.

Today is a good day.

He throws himself into the heat of battle, relishing the pumping of his magic and how the blood of his enemies spills across the ground—(sacrifices, _sacrifices_ in the name of—) there is something about it that heats his blood; logical though he is, good-intentioned though (some of) his reasons may be, Voldemort is at his best when his enemies call him a monster. It is the part of him nurtured from long, long ago—in that orphanage on that street in that city amongst those people—that seeks blood.

Voldemort has tamed it like a wild animal to be leashed. Only by his will does he release the beast and let it “play.”

He makes no mistakes when discerning his own character and original nature—Voldemort knows how suited he is to be a villain, to be the enemy of all. He seeks not for it, nor holds the role in any amount of great esteem, but rather accepts it as a tool to be used in order to obtain his ultimate goal.

As it can be said, there is no reason to be predictable in the face of his adversary unless it is to prove _un_ predictable later.

Every facet of his personality he uses to the maximum efficiency. That in itself—rather than the wild animal leashed within—is the “monstrous” part of the Dark Lord. Voldemort knows. So when it comes a time to stop planning and stop building, instead putting those plans to action and testing how strong his foundation is, _that_ is when he is at his best.

Something relaxes him in the throes of battle.

And he quite likes it.

His duel with Dumbledore reaches a point where Voldemort takes the advantage. He moves to corner the man—figuratively; _literally_ with his magic—and just as it seems that the once Transfiguration professor has been on his back foot for too long and will falter, a familiar ring falls out from the man’s sleeve. It is blackened, mutilated, _destroyed_. Voldemort sees red.

_“I have horcruxes.”_

_“Yes, and you might not in the future. From what I remember, Dumbledore knows of their existence...”_

Dumbledore nods at something behind him. The Dark Lord feels some magic ripple the air, an ominous telling of a spell about to be cast.

“ _Sectumsempra_!”

He tries to dodge. The earth beneath him snares his body and locks his movement. The white light of the curse envelops his vision, blinding him and forcing his eyes shut.

Voldemort hears the spell hit a body. He feels nothing—it is not his own—so he opens his eyes.

There is a moment—the Dark Lord cannot figure exactly _when_ in that sliver of time, but he figures it must be when his eyes follow the trail of red down, down, down the black robes because following it up would mean seeing the face and he just _couldn’t_ —when everything that he has ever felt before is lost.

All of a sudden, just like that.

And there is a hollow emptiness in that moment, in his chest and in his head and in his bones, that he doesn’t know what to do with. It takes another hair of a second to realize that the hollowness isn’t _his_ —well, it is, but it doesn’t originate from him—it’s _Tom_ ’s. Tom’s horror. Tom’s disbelief. Tom’s numbing shock, moving to every corner of his being.

It should frighten him.

Tom is powerful enough to unconsciously affect his thoughts and actions now. Voldemort is no longer simply sharing a mind, he is sharing a _body_. That should frighten him like nothing else—he should be running through a million different options to get rid of the unwanted presence.

But he doesn’t.

Because after that moment passes, the rage becomes Voldemort’s own. It is a shared sort of white burning fury, too hot to pick a color, bright and indiscriminate unlike his usual darkness. His darkness eclipses all, but this fury, so _burning bright_ , takes all things and accepts them into its fold, and then burns them all with the unbearable light. Perhaps that is fitting, because it burns away all visage of the calm and collected Dark Lord on the battlefield, leaving nothing but a crazed, maddened _beast_. Rage. This is _their rage_.

 _Harry_.

What insanity he had before can't even compare. _That_ was consistent insanity—driven by the fourteen years of wandering as a wraith. But this, _this_ madness, _this_ one is volatile. This one is vicious for all different reasons. This one is _doubled_ , because he feels it mirrored inside of him by Tom, tenfold and ever-rising still because they rally off of each other, exponentially increasing that sudden stroke of anger and blindness and _pain_ to a new level.

They make it cloud over the intense sorrow they feel, like they themselves have been struck instead. Like Harry never stepped in front of them. Like _they_ had fallen to _their knees_. Like _they_ were the one bleeding—dyingdeathdead _die_ deaddying _dead_ —

 _Harry is mine_ , they both think in unison, _I choose when he cries. I choose when he hurts. I choose when he falls and when he rises and when he_ kills _—I choose, I choose, I_ choose.

_I AM THE ONE WHO SAYS WHETHER HE LIVES OR DIES._

He raises his wand. There is a spell on its tip and on his lips—oh, a ghastly spell, one too unspeakable to _think of_ never mind _name_ —but it never leaves. It doesn't matter because Snape is dead either way, but then again it matters a little and then a lot when the one who kills him— _supposed to be_ deaddying _dead_ —has just risen from the ground to do the deed.

It comes back to them both again. Harry is the Embodiment of Light. He _can't_ die—not by something as _stupid_ as a _spell_. Not something so utterly mortal as a curse that causes deep, gouging wounds in the flesh. Not something so comparably _weak_.

 _Oh,_ Voldemort thinks, feeling oddly hollow as the rage leaves him all at once. _Oh_ , Tom echoes. Yes, _oh_.

The Embodiment of Light licks his lips as he adopts his usual sweetly insane half-broken smile. The battlefield, once so boisterous with the din of feuds and anger and madness, is silent. Everyone watches—Dumbledore in a degree more of growing horror than the rest—as the one they thought was dead, the one they claimed a hero, a martyr, imbeds his claws deep into Severus Snape’s chest and wrenches a still-beating heart out.

The corpse falls. Harry grins.

The blood smeared on his lips and coating his hand and just _all over_ looks more fitting than ever. A _demon_ , they think, who is the terrible, monstrous _demon_?

Harry tells them.

“The only one who has the right to touch the Dark Lord is _me_ ,” he says, unrepentant as his perfect smile twists into a wild, cold-blooded snarl. “Not a hair, not a wisp, not a _drop_ of your _filthy_ magic can touch him. He is _mine._ You know? He’s always been mine. Only I can hurt him. Only I can make him _bleed_. If you're the invader, then I'm the dragon— _and he_ is my hoard.”

Dumbledore shakes his head. Slowly, at first, and then with gaining speed. “Who are you?” he whispers, “…Harry?”

Harry’s snarl shifts into an innocent smile again, a transformation played in reverse. He tilts his head to the side, takes a second to feign confusion, and then asks, “Harry? Who’s that? There’s only the Embodiment of Light here.”

 _The Embodiment of Light._ Voldemort’s pulse picks up as a mantra cycles in his mind— _yes, yes, yes, I was right, I was right, I was_ right—And Tom, who watches from shared red eyes, thinks _no, no, no—he’s planning something, I know it; I've made a mistake—_

“Now I’ll show you the power of the Guard Dog of the Dark Lord. Watch carefully, alright? It’s a definite treat for mortals like _you_.” Before anyone can reply, Harry raises his hand, points a finger at the sky, and silently commands spheres of light to materialize above the aurors. They form a scattered circle in the air, covering about two rows of the wizards that had surrounded them.

There is a pause—about a second—when the Embodiment of Light grins, showing off his sharply white teeth.

The finger pointed at the sky descends. Harry snaps his fingers as he brings down his arm in a decisive movement, causing the levitating spheres to spread and transform into arrows made of light. The arrows spin, re-directing themselves to the ground, and at the moment when Harry’s hand finishes its path, they fall.

It’s as if all of them had been simultaneously shot at the same moment. All of them embed themselves into a body—at least three to one—and it is such a quick, sudden strike that none of the wizards can bring themselves to scream. But that brief moment is the calm before the storm.

At first it is one, then two, then three and four and five—ten, eleven, fifteen wizards that let out heart-shattering shrieks of pain and agony. Like a chorus of suffering. Harry does not move; he only watches, waits, patient and solitary.

Then the first body goes up in flames—burning from the inside out.

Voldemort is accustomed to chaos and destruction. He is the _Dark Lord_! But there is something _fearsome_ about _this_ assault. Whether it’s how quickly it came, how _easily_ , how _soon_ all those struck with arrows fell—he doesn’t know. Whatever it is, it is like cold metal has drenched his rage, put it out like a small campfire easily smothered.

He _fears_ the Embodiment of Light.

And when Voldemort turns to Dumbledore, the only human left standing in the front two rows, he knows his fear is shared with at least one other.

“Hey, where’s the applause?” Harry says after the screams have quelled. “Mortals sure are rude. I put in the effort to give you all a demonstration, and all I get are these… these _looks_? Ah, but I suppose the painted horror is nice, too… Unfortunately for you, I’m only craving _one person_ ’s despair. You’ll have to pay me with something else, alright?”

“Who are you?” Dumbledore demands, wrinkled face even paler than he was before. “No, _what_ are you? Why do you wear a skin not yours? You are _not_ Harry Potter!”

Harry shrugs. “Harry Potter? Which one? He’s a lot of things too. I’m afraid you’ll have to specify. Ah, but here’s a disclaimer—” a gust of hot, dry air blows past, even as the sky remains cloudy and dark, “—I’m not obligated to answer you. Just because I left you alive doesn’t mean you’re special. Voldemort might have use for you, so that’s why I did it. And you know, that’s what’s important—

“To be a Guard Dog, you must know when to heel, even when the collar around your neck remains slack.”

* * *

_There is fire._

_All-consuming, hungering, scouring, implacable fire; and Voldemort is powerless to do anything to stop it._

The sound of dragging chains is rough against the ground, full of grit and sweat and _agony_ —ah, _yes_ , Harry thinks, this is the sound that he loves most. His guiltiest pleasure. Something that squeezes his heart so tightly, as if a boa constrictor saw him as its prey; something that brings him enough pain to never _truly_ leave his body; something that overwrites and eclipses all other pains assaulting his body.

This sound…

“How long do you plan to run for?” he asks, voice an innocent curiosity. The flames roar about them both, but his question is clear and still against its backdrop of fury.

Voldemort tries to lift his head—a slow and painful process, Harry muses, and the god’s gaze drops from the mess of black hair to the straining neck and down, down, down, to the shackles around his wrists and ankles, all of which are attached to dull iron weights.

“You won’t win,” the wizard says. A bluff of a statement, of course; they both know it’s only a matter of time, and Voldemort’s voice is so weak and frail that it’s hardly believable in the first place.

“Haven’t I already?”

“I won’t fall for that. You’ll never make me surrender to you.”

Harry smiles. “It’s your fault, you know. If you just tell me whether or not Tom has left for the next world, I’ll let you go.”

The Embodiment of Light is met with silence. Harry sighs.

“You’ll die here if you don’t say anything, you know.”

“I’ll die either way,” Voldemort retorts.

“Then you admit you’ve lost?”

More silence. Harry huffs in mild irritation. “So un-cute,” he grumbles. “What you’re doing right now is as good as a mouse trying to strangle a lion with its tail. Why cause yourself more pain? Can’t you just tell me what I want and die already?”

“Why don’t you kill me instead? Chase Tom out of my body, if he’s here.”

“That’s not how the game is played,” Harry chides, shaking his head. “You still have will. It must be an absolute victory— _death_ cannot be your escape. You must have _no_ escapes; the only place you can turn to is _me_. It’s troublesome, but that’s how it is—and doesn’t it sound all the more satisfying if I win that way? A game isn’t fun unless you abide by the rules.”

Voldemort doesn’t answer. Harry didn’t expect him to.

“How about this, then. If you tell me where Tom is, I’ll tell you a secret. An exchange, if you will. And then I’ll leave. Doesn’t that sound fair? Much better than dragging yourself around all day, you know.”

“How important is the secret?”

Harry laughs. “Ah, as cautious as always! But you know I won’t shortchange you, right, love? It’s a very important secret. A very, _very_ … _deadly_ secret.”

“For you or for me?”

Harry laughs again before quieting until all that can be heard is the death of the world around them. Then, he slowly turns to face the Dark Lord beside him, holding up a single finger in a mocking façade of teaching a lesson. “For _me_. What I’ll tell you is the _absolute_ secret—a god’s one true weakness. Aren’t you curious? What will hurt me most…hm. It won’t kill me, as you suspect, but something that’s your weakness doesn’t necessarily have to _kill you_. How about it, sweetheart? Interested?”

Voldemort considers the offer before finally nodding. “Tom is gone.”

Harry grins. “Ah! I just _knew it_! Of course he wouldn’t stay—mm, but I just couldn’t let go of the slim chance that he _would_ , you know? Well, that’s fine. Alright now, for _my_ end of the bargain…”

The Dark Lord waits. And the Embodiment of Light smiles, placing his index finger to his lips in the universal symbol of silence.

“A god’s greatest weakness is… _love_.”

“Love?”

“Curious, isn’t it? The emotion that is humanity’s _greatest strength_ —oh, come now, don’t _deny it_ ; you were half right in the end!—is a god’s _greatest weakness_. But it makes sense if you think about it. How long does a human live? Now compare that to the time a god exists. Relative to that, isn’t it but a blink of an eye? A second on the clock of eternal time? Yes…pity, that’s the difference.

“Love is both a remedy and a poison. You know of _amortentia_ , don’t you? Intimately well, if I recall. Yes…it’s the same thing. _Time_. _Overdose_. Deadly factors, those. You humans live just short enough to only experience the strength of love. The _remedy_. The pleasure. It was like that for me, too, when I lived. But, do you know, for a god that lives _forever_ …how dangerous that sort of strength can be?

“The strength of _love_ does not belong to any single one soul. It can be wielded, but it cannot be _owned_. It cannot be tamed, or controlled, or dominated by any being in the entire universe. And power corrupts. Think, now; what is strength but a form of power? And now, what is love? Yes, your expression shows you understand…love corrupts. Love is _worst_ when it corrupts. If we are lucky, love will decay—but if it lasts _long enough_ to _corrupt_ …”

“It becomes poison,” the Dark Lord murmurs.

“Yes. For there to exist a power that the gods cannot control…that one thing is _love_. At the end of the road, love will always result in despair. The happiness that it brings is only momentary bliss in the beginning—the beginning that you humans never manage to live past. Love is indiscriminate. Love will target whatever is in its path, eventually harming whoever has taken it upon themselves to wield it. Love is a double-edged sword. And because you already drank the remedy in the beginning—that is, _love_ —there is no more left for after you ingest its poison. That’s how love works. Indiscriminate and absolute.

“And you know, it’s as good as a drug. The gods have no escape from it; once captured, we’re as good as doomed to it for eternity. A corrupted love cannot _decay_ ; cannot fade away. It eats away at the soul, gnawing on the bones of our very existence. It is a poison that, once experienced, we have no resolve to find an antidote for. We will fall for all of its follies, glorify all of its mistakes, cling to it as the only thing left we have in this world…

“The only power we cannot control. The only _game_ whose rules we cannot dictate or change to suit our fancy. The only belonging of ours—truly, that doesn’t belong to us anyway—that we can claim and be _wrong_. Do you understand? For an omniscient, omnipotent being, love can leave us _powerless_. Love controls _us_! And so desperate, so _yearning_ of this sort of humanity are we…wanting what we cannot have, lusting after what we know to be impossibilities…that we cannot let love go. We willingly take up the knife and plunge it into our eternal souls, knowing the damage will be made even as the artificial surface wounds heal.

“That is love, for a god. That is the only _result_ of love. Love only leads to pain and despair, destruction of the most intimate quality. A human wouldn’t understand,” Harry spits out bitterly, “A human wouldn’t understand the curse of a god’s love. All a human can do is _underestimate_ love; respect love and glorify love, fear it and desire it, but _never_ would a human see love as a god sees love. _Never_. And that is why Tom will never win—because he depends on _himself_ , his _human_ selves.

“Selves that do not see love for what love is, and so will never be able to defeat _me_ —whose eyes are clear, with insanity only serving as my shield and love as my double-edged sword.”

_There is fire._

_As Harry leaves, there is fire—raging, scorching, indiscriminate_ fire _, and Voldemort’s last thought as he is burned alive is,_ this must be what it feels like. _This must be what a god’s love feels like._

* * *

It was strange, Harry muses.

 _Is_. It _is_ strange, still.

The thought does something funny to his chest, so Harry rolls over onto his side and curls up into a more comfortable— _safe_ , _defensive_ —position. He’s as naked as the day he was born, as is the body next to him.

The perpetual hum of pain is muted now, needles dull instead of sharp against his skin.

Harry sighs, relaxes the sea of insanity he usually drowns himself in, and takes comfort in the breath of air that tells him he’s still _here_ and _alive_ and _sane_. The smell of blood, sweat, sex and desperation is still heavy in the room like a condensed fog, but Harry doesn’t find it stifling in the least. His normal body temperature ever since becoming the Embodiment of Light has been _burning_ , to say the least of it, so the heat that most would think uncomfortable doesn’t affect him.

It’s been awhile, but that isn’t the source of the strangeness he feels. After all, it isn’t like Harry hasn’t starved himself before—he’s done that plenty of times, all for the sake of the game; for the rush, the sweetness of victory. Starving himself is a common occurrence. He shouldn’t feel this way.

But he does.

 _Voldemort_ , Harry thinks, focusing on the way the name sounds in his head instead of the man himself. The man himself is, in fact, slumbering beside him. Harry knows he should probably get going on his dream manipulation. It’s a perfect time to do it—no, a _key_ time to do it. The Dark Lord is vulnerable.

Harry knows he should take advantage of it.

But he doesn’t.

_“I have loved too late.”_

The words pulse in his head, again and again and again. Harry closes his eyes and tries to wipe them away.

“ _I have loved so late, that you often argue that I have not loved at all.”_

Stop, he wants to say. _Stop_. Please. Harry doesn’t want to hear it—doesn’t want to hear it at all. He wishes, for a moment, to be deaf to his thoughts, to mute all the sounds of his mind…to erase the memories he’d rather not remember.

The sound of Tom’s deep, amused chuckle next to his ear, the feeling of arms wrapped around him tight, comfort and safety when Harry knows he needs it most…

He sees, smells, tastes, hears, feels Tom beneath his fingertips, on his lips and beside his ear and nuzzling nose-to-nose. _Why aren’t you here,_ Harry wants to shout, _why aren’t you with me? I needed you. I_ need _you_ now _—so why aren’t you here? Don’t you love me anymore?_

It feels like ages pass in between the cracks of a second.

The squeezing of his chest again is a familiar pain, too.

…It’s strange. It’s strange because it’s been _so, so long_ since Harry has thought about…before in such an emotional manner. His musings of times past are mostly cold and detached, nonchalant and, if anything, irritated with himself—all out of necessity, because if they _aren’t_ …

Harry curls himself tighter in his fetal position. When they aren’t, it’s hard to know what’s real and what’s not, anymore.

 _Tom, Tom, Tom_. So kind, so cruel. Harry sees in his minds’ eye what they had been before—every time Tom had ever gripped his hand and squeezed before a battle, every time Harry took it upon himself to prepare a late night cup of tea for them both without the house-elves’ assistance, every time Tom left whatever he was working on in order to comfort and be comforted by Harry. Every time, every time, every time…

Harry remembers the countless amount of times Tom saved him, and the countless amount of times he’s saved his love in return. He remembers as if he’s a human again—just this once, just this time, only now in this brief moment does he try to forget the present and fall and just _crave_.

_“I have loved too late.”_

It’s true. Harry thinks back to the time he and Tom first met, and then the progression from then on. Tom hadn’t said he loved Harry for the longest of time—and it hadn’t even been because of ‘actions speak louder than words,’ or something like that. It was because—yes, Harry remembers _this_ acutely—it was because Tom hadn’t believed he’d loved Harry either.

And…he’d been okay with that, too. For the longest of time, Harry had been content in believing Tom would never love him, and that was okay because Harry was sure he had enough love for the both of them, and at least Tom was _attempting_ to show care and affection. Harry had been sure that would be the extent of it.

Tom. _Tom, Tom, Tom_. Harry wishes, yearning to be human again, that things would’ve stayed that way. Maybe if it did, it would’ve hurt less to find out what love truly meant for them both. Maybe if it did, Harry would’ve been okay with that and ended things before the game even started. Maybe if it did, he wouldn’t have to be in so much pain all the time.

He could’ve slept forever. Pretended he was human and fall into the realm of his memories, never to open his eyes again.

Maybe Tom could’ve gone with him. And they’d stay like that until the end of time, or until they faded away together—existence lost to the ever-changing waves of the universe.

Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe. Harry’s tired of _maybes_ and _what ifs_. Harry’s tired of _love_ and _hate_ and _revenge_ , but he can’t stop; can’t stop, can’t stop, can’t _stop_. It hurts too much to stop; either resignation or revenge, Harry’s been forced to choose. And he’s tired of resignation, so the only other option is both the one that hurts him most and the one that saves him from wallowing in his own despair.

Harry needs additional focus, something other than the love that eats him from the inside out. And so there it is—hatred, anger, rage, lust for vengeance and a sense of motivation.

…But it hurts, because he’s not human anymore and so the days of he and Tom ever standing side by side, basking in the soft joy of their relationship are gone forever. Bliss doesn’t exist for a god. What do gods have to be _happy_ over? Stuck teetering the line between indifference and negativity, Harry has known the answer for a long time.

 _Nothing at all_.

What good is living forever, if _forever_ drains away all happiness in life? In fact, what is _life_ if one exists _forever_? Without death, how can he define life? Harry thinks, and thinks, and thinks, mind spiraling into one of the questions that he’s thought over for millennia.

He’s known an answer now, for a long time. Because in the end, prophecies always have a penchant for telling the truth.

 _Neither can live while the other survives_.

That’s what makes them Tom Riddle and Harry Potter, even as the Embodiment of Dark and Embodiment of Light.

_“I have loved too late.”_

_“I have loved so late, that you often argue that I have not loved at all.”_

Harry looks up from his burrow beneath the blankets. With his superior vision, he can see the pale skin of the Dark Lord in the darkness, see every mark and edge and line.

 _Voldemort_.

There’s something different about this one, Harry realizes—they were all different, but somehow this one is even a mark above the rest. In what way, he can’t quite say…but he feels it in the way his heart aches and squeezes in the peculiar, delicious fashion of warranted, innocent pain.

Harry wants to reach out. Wants to grab that shoulder, make his way across the small distance of the bed and curl up close. _Hold me_ , he wants to whisper. _Hold me_ —

“ _Are you well?”_

_No._

_“How strange of you to ask.”_

_It’s been millennia since anyone’s honestly asked me that._

_“Not strange at all.”_

_Help me._

_I don’t want this. I don’t want this existence anymore!_

_…If you can hear me, please—_

Harry cuts himself off. A deadly chill eclipses his mind so quickly it is as if it was a defense mechanism of his own making. Maybe it is.

It’s hot, Harry thinks, before drowning himself in his sea of insanity once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I thought the LAST chapter was hard to write...geez, this one was waaaaay harder p_q.
> 
> Also poor bby Harry. And poor all the incarnations of TMR-LV that had to suffer pre-fic at Harry's hands. I really don't think I'll write another yandere/dark/insane!Harry after UDDUP...definitely done with exploring _this_ base...
> 
> Ahhh I cried so many times while thinking about what I wanted to put in this chapter it was ridiculous. Like one second it was "okay, advancing plot...building the LV ship...oh god oh god oh god" and then I'm bawling my eyes like a little kid.
> 
> Also now you get more insight into a more familiar(?) if I can say Harry. The Harry that just wants to love and be loved in return, the one we kinda see in LV's first dream/memory on the domestic life of TMR and HP. -sighs-
> 
> Welp.
> 
> Obligatory pairing reminder: We have a TMR/HP/LV love triangle going on here folks, and guess how we're gonna resolve it?!!!! Well I'll remind you. YOU'RE going to resolve it!!! Through voting. Democracy. Yeeeeeah~ So put your vote in a comment (either TMR/HP, LV/HP, TMR/HP/LV 3some, or NO FINAL PAIRING) or literally anything else you want the ending to be and I'll try to fit that into my voting system. Voting will go until the final chapter is out, and majority vote will win. You can change your vote at any time before the final chapter (which is 9) is released. Thanks!
> 
> (You can check the current vote by checking out the MOST RECENT VOTE COMMENT'S REPLY.)


	8. Is also great...

Watching his other self fall in love with Harry makes Tom feel things he shouldn't be feeling.

It's ridiculous, in his opinion—how many times did he have to watch this act in the past, how many Toms and Voldemorts and Marvolos fell into Harry's web, and despite them all it's _this_ particular incarnation that causes him to falter? Tom doesn't know what's the difference with _this_ Voldemort, though he acknowledges something's different this time around.

Magically speaking, this Voldemort is on the slightly below average side relative to his other selves. As for intelligence, he doesn't stand out as particularly brilliant—though that is of course in comparison to many, many Tom Marvolo Riddles. His cunning is similarly average; skills, average; curiosity, average; wordplay...average; the list could go on.

Truly, Tom thinks little of him, and yet somehow the script being acted out before him stirs the memories of his heart.

He knows what Harry does. He also knows how _good_ he is at it. So what's different?

...Sometimes, Tom wonders how far his mistakes go. In that region, usually Dumbledore takes the cake in his mind for 'longstanding, uncompensated wrongdoings', but after playing this game for such a long time, it's impossible not to reflect upon himself as well.

The reason why he ran off in the first place— _alone—_ to deal with the threat was, he originally assumed, because it had been dangerous if they were together. At the time, it wasn't because he didn't trust Harry. The mere thought was absurd. Who else could he trust if not his other half?

But that statement is inherently false, because Tom now understands that he hadn’t thought of Harry as his other half at all. They’d been partners, in his mind, but not _one_. He’d never seen Harry as an extension of himself. And then, it wasn’t because he’d thought Harry unworthy or the like; he’d simply been unable to see it—to change his mindset into that of an Embodiment.

Time, then, has not made him more knowledgeable; it has made him complacent. And that has been a mistake that had cost him dearly.

Unfortunately, Tom knows his mistakes were more far-reaching than that; they started even before he and Harry became Embodiments. At the end of their human lives, Tom had thought their love the strongest thing in existence…

Relative to other loves of the same nature, perhaps it was. But in the grand extent of the universe, their love had been a fragile thing. He did not know Harry’s heart then—thought he knew, but of course he’d been wrong—and by this time, it’s already too late.

It’s easy to flatter and adore, to fling around affection and manage to bring pleasure and happiness. When enough arrows are shot in the general right direction, it isn’t impossible to hit the bullseye. Similarly, coming to know Harry well hadn’t been a hard task; they’d ruled the Wizarding World together, after all. Daily life, occasional events, arguments—these things are all easy to learn to give a good performance, especially when the two parties are on the same side.

When can one truly say when they are in love? That had been a question Tom had been troubled by in their early years. Certainly their feelings had flowed in a mutual direction, but how did he know when they overlapped, blended, were exactly the same? He had never liked a state of powerlessness, and the idea of love he’d had then was exactly that: willingness to put oneself into a powerless position before another.

He’d been terribly lucky that Harry was so understanding. And yet, maybe that too had been a mistake. Because of Harry’s infinite patience, he’d never pushed, and because he’d never pushed, Tom had hesitated and postponed for far too long. The love that they’d finally been able to achieve was a sweet one, one he’d wished they’d been able to have sooner, but it was still full of holes—marks and scars from his previously missed arrows. And he hadn’t noticed until it was too late.

Harry trusted him—gave him his loyalty and heart and anything Tom had ever asked for. Tom, in turn, tried to do the same. They were an attentive couple, so attuned to each other that they could even turn around and both say their actions were too disgusting in public and private. It had even become a game for them—who could please the other best, who could show their favor to the other the best?

Who could even think that they would ever go wrong? The thought could not cross anyone’s mind at the time. They were perfect. They were ideal. They could not be matched by anything or anyone but each other—

But perfection built upon a flawed foundation is bound to fall. It’s that the flawed foundation was never repaired that lead to it. Maybe if Tom was able to see his mistakes sooner, try to fix them sooner, then maybe…

He remembers one time when Harry wanted to go flower watching. Luna had mentioned—rather as an off-handed remark, but the person that Harry was most attentive to second to Tom was, of course, Luna, so even those comments were taken seriously—that the chrysanthemums were especially beautiful as of late. The Light Lord of Britain immediately said he wanted to go see them, and not for just a quick glance either.

So, he as the indulgent Dark Lord of Britain of course set aside time in both their schedules to properly go flower viewing. Many of the government officials at the time had found it a bit ridiculous and over the top—two men, not even under pressure from their wives (not that they _had_ any), going to leisurely enjoy _flowers_? It was a feminine activity then and still was one now.

Harry, though, had never really cared for anyone else’s opinions, and if Luna said the chrysanthemums were beautiful, then they were beautiful and he wanted to go enjoy them. He was not above basking in the beauty of nature just because it was considered a feminine thing to do; he cared not for any opinions other people had about his masculinity. It wasn’t their business anyway. Tom went along with it because he also didn’t really care, and Luna was becoming a bit of a soft spot for him, too.

Besides, it was a break from politics, and flower viewing _was_ a romantic thing to do. Tom didn’t think much of it, but Harry did, and that automatically meant that they were probably going to do it. If it had been the reverse—Tom wanting to go but Harry apathetic—then the results would’ve been the same.

Treat the ones close to you well, and you will be treated well in return as the saying goes. Tom was of the particular opinion that occasionally spoiling Harry would reap him great rewards, so tactfully spoil he did.

They’d gone out, had a picnic, and enjoyed a great time together in each other’s company. It wasn’t the first or the last time they’d had a spontaneous outing—sometimes, Tom’s urges would take them across the continent never mind the country—but there’s something about it that makes him think of it now.

Fond—yes, _that_ is the feeling he remembers most of it. In the hands of Harry, everything that he naturally was stayed the same, but it came out softer. He remembers spending more time watching Harry than the flowers, remembers the urge to see his companion with flowers in his hair because he’d be the one to put them there. Possessive urges came out as endearing affections, disinterest turned to directed interest elsewhere.

Quick temper ran into persistent mischief, muted emotions became a steady mountain to rest against.

He’d been...grateful. That is the thought that brings the memory to mind now. He’d looked at Harry, saw the slack shoulders and eased muscles, calm expression and motionless lips, and thought, “Thank you for existing for me.” But he didn’t say it—instead, he wrapped his arms about his waist and said they should eat before the food got cold, even though the stasis charms would hold for a long while yet.

Actions speak louder than words. But what actions could convey that profound feeling he’d felt then? Sometimes, the clarity of words are required in order for proper understanding.

Perhaps if he’d told him then, they wouldn’t be where they are now.

...His Harry was a person that naturally didn’t think much of himself. He did not actively put himself down, but in most situations Tom was used to assuming Harry would disregard himself to protect someone else, or run into danger because he subconsciously didn’t consider himself worth the caution. It was fortunate that those close to Harry returned his sentiments with a good nature—they sought to protect him, would willingly lay down their lives—and those that would not never got close enough. Harry was Tom’s guard dog, but Tom was his behind-the-scenes.

It made Harry a very social creature. Time, then, didn’t treat him well. Death and isolation struck large wounds across his soul; he was dependent on others to form an idea of his self-worth. ‘Others’ did not count just _anyone_ , of course—he disregarded generally everyone’s opinion, but that made those whose opinions he _did_ value worth all the more—and Tom should’ve known that.

Tom did.

He should’ve treated that as his _own_ weakness and planned accordingly.

Tom didn’t.

They are two halves of a whole, two sides of the same coin, the Embodiment of Light and the Embodiment of Dark. Where one ended, the other began, and the point of their melding can never be precisely pinpointed.

It shouldn’t have been Harry and Tom. There shouldn’t have been an ‘and’ to begin with. He hadn’t understood that while he is Tom, he is also _Harry_ , and so this on top of Harry’s own nature lead to their eventual...that eventual...the…

_That._

And now Harry is lost to him forever—insanity consumes him, there is no return of his once beloved. To honor what once was, Tom is obligated to follow him...but first, he must settle what he started. The abomination that now takes the form of the love of his life must be destroyed. The torment he experienced—no, it’s better not to think on that; it’ll make him reminisce again, and the only thing worse than thinking of his love is being unable to hold Harry in his arms and apologize a thousand times.

There is no ‘next time’. Once they are destroyed, they will be gone—faded into oblivion, never to reincarnate or exist again. Their souls will disappear. He will never see Harry again—will never exist to see Harry again. It will be the ultimate death.

But that is the only form of rest for a god, so it’s fine. Tom is tired, and if he is tired, then so would Harry be. He’ll end this cycle, this game, and that’ll be the last thing he does—for Harry, who is Tom, who is himself, he’ll give the world and more.

Loyalty must be rewarded, after all. And the person who has been the most loyal to him, even more loyal than Tom has been to himself, is Harry.

* * *

A man once told him that he would never be able to understand love. At the time, Voldemort hadn’t cared— _understand love?_ Why would he want to?—but ever since the other Harry Potter has come into his life, he thinks he can.

Obsession is destructive. Admiration is fragile. Respect is elusive. Apathy is cold.

_Some say the world will end in fire,_

Love is heat. Love is a life-fluid he’d previously been deprived of—and in his loveless strength, he’d declared love a weakness while in fact it was the exact opposite. Love was an indomitable power wielded in the right hands, a weakness in the possession of an incompetent master.

_Some say in ice._

Love is fire. Passion that many say cannot be controlled, but that is only because so enamored with the flame’s dance they are, they forget it is them that holds the torch. Voldemort is not so foolish. He knows now he can point the light source in any direction he wishes, wield the fire in any way he can. The power is in his hands as long as he tends to it, and he has no intention of inciting Harry to turn to him with hateful eyes.

_From what I’ve tasted of desire_

He will save him. He will destroy the Embodiment of Light, and once he does so, he and Harry will be free to do as they like. Rule the world, if they wish so. Voldemort is certain.

With love he can command an impossible rage, turn spring showers to a peerless maelstrom.

All that stands in his way is the Embodiment of Light...and consequently, the Embodiment of Dark. Who else was it that sought to turn him against Harry? Who else was it that warned him, dared to tell him with a cold voice and even colder gaze that pursuit would be fruitless?

 _And then_ he dared to turn face and show anger and concern, fondness and adoration to the very same person he’d sworn against? Only Tom. Only _Tom_ would be so arrogant as to look down on Voldemort and practically spit in his face.

Harry is _his_. Once, perhaps, Tom had been in his heart, but now his heart is Voldemort’s, and there is nothing in the world that can take that away.

_I hold with those that favor fire._

* * *

“Hades is the god of the Underworld. His domain is shrouded in darkness, where the light never touches. That’s why, love, I play the game—light cannot be where dark eclipses all. To pit dark against dark, send a shadow where the light can never go...it’s flawless, this tactic of mine.

You would know best, wouldn’t you?”

Harry laughs, more of a maniac giggle before he sighs.

“Game’s almost over. If you don’t do something soon, it’ll just be my uncontested win, you know?”

* * *

_“Are you really going to fall for his trap?”_

Voldemort glares in the mirror at his reflection. Tom is unaffected.

_“There’s still time left. Heed my warning and don’t fall any further for his illusions. Beware the Embodiment of Light! He has not won yet.”_

“After you were so worried for him, now you act cold? Do you expect me to fall for that act?” The Dark Lord sneers. “Clearly, your mind is muddled. I’ll deal with the Embodiment of Light myself, since you appear so incompetent in controlling yourself.”

_“United we could hardly best him. You expect to do so yourself?”_

The light is dim, unable to completely bypass the heavy curtains in the room. Voldemort stands in front of the full body length mirror and feels his temper rising like a nine-headed hydra being disturbed in its own nest—burgundy eyes unamused, posture perfect and face so grim it could be etched on a gravestone, the sight of his other self is utterly detestable. Tom is not above him in any way, shape, or form, and yet he dare act so superior?

Voldemort will make sure he knows his place.

 _“And you are not against one in this battle any longer,”_ Tom continues. _“You are against two. Think before you assume! There is only one insanity you try and defeat; Harry Potter is no longer. No matter what you think you have found—”_

“Jealous?” Voldemort goads. “I know what you’re up to. There’s simply no way you can be that blind—the only answer is that you know, and you’re trying to hide him from me because I’ll steal him away. Well, if that’s what you’re expecting, then I won’t disappoint.”

The Embodiment of Dark loses his composure completely and glares. “ _You will be made a fool of,”_ he hisses, voice matching that of a divine being, _“He will eat you alive, for all and everything of what you are. No_ — _he_ is _eating you alive_ —”

“A bold faced _lie_ . Harry wouldn’t hurt a _fly_ if he didn’t have to.” Voldemort scoffs. “One would think you’d use a more...Slytherin tactic than that. But I suppose being an all-powerful god for so long has dulled your creativity. I can somewhat understand—you recognize the sharpness of the sword, but fear its sheath! _You do not deserve him_ . _I_ will show you how to wield a sword!”

With one flick of his wand, the mirror shatters into a million pieces that all instantly turn to dust. Unfazed, the Dark Lord turns on his heel and heads for the door, each movement as pointed as an arrowhead.

Outside, a sharp corner down the hallway has him almost colliding with Harry. His sweet smile is a work of art. If the greatest painters in the world collaborated to make one picture, it would not be more perfect than that smile.

The Dark Lord, however, is not charmed. Instead, he ignores the smile and looks into the eyes—there, he knows he can find his magnum opus.

“Ah—my dark, what angers you so?”

Voldemort takes him into his arms like a gift from the gods. Harry, shamelessly waiting there, presses innocent affection against his jaw.

“Why, nothing, love, that you cannot remedy.”

* * *

 _A guard dog,_ the Embodiment of Light thinks, _must be trained well. If it is trained well, then the trainer must be praised._

“How you spoil me so, love,” he murmurs, kissing Voldemort’s lips without intentions of receiving a reply. “You make me feel if the stars were pearls of the sky, you would make me a circlet to adorn my head with.”

“Not a bad idea,” the Dark Lord replies. “But it would all be for naught, as my light outshines any _mere stars_.”

Harry, ducking his head, hides a too-wide shark tooth grin in his black robes.

_Oh, Tom...you have trained this one well for me. I’ll be sure to give you a good show in return, darling!_

* * *

Voldemort blinks. It takes a few more tries to refocus his eyes, and even then he still reaches up to rub them.

His head feels light. The familiar feeling of fatigue is there and the Dark Lord knows he won’t get anything done right now like this. So, instead of continuing he pushes away the pile of parchment paper and calls for some tea.

He’s been feeling more and more tired lately, for some reason; though, this is the first time it’s affected his work so drastically. The tea slides down his throat like a pepper up potion, and soon enough he forgets that he was ever tired in the first place.

Aura masked outside the Dark Lord’s office, Harry hums.

* * *

Tom prepares himself. Everything that he’s done since entering this world, every step of the way, _everything_ has been planned by him. There is nothing that he misses, nothing that he can afford to miss.

They’ve been playing this game for so long, did Harry really think he wouldn’t find a way to beat him?

He watches as his other self is slowly consumed. This is the game that the Embodiment of Light likes to play; it’s almost masochistic, almost definitely masochistic the way Harry starves himself and slowly chews before he swallows. Voldemort does not know. He is blind to it, caught in the sugar webbing of Harry Potter’s smiles and attention.

Harry knows how to play the game well. On one hand is a powerful, insane, literal god who showers affection like a bath faucet. On the other hand is a poor, _darling_ , trapped victim of said god...willing to love but unable to. It’s a scene that would naturally attract any Tom Riddle like bees to honey. One shows the result of love, the other gives the opportunity to snatch it. All the tools are perfectly laid out for the taking. What better trap is there?

Tom doesn’t blame his other self. In fact, all his plans revolve on Harry’s victory. He hadn’t lied when he’d told Voldemort that he would live if he won.

 _“If my plan succeeds,_ you will live _.”_

The Dark Lord would live alright—just not for very long. Tom doesn’t mind sacrificing him; he doesn’t care for Voldemort, just that he has a use. It could’ve been any other incarnation of himself and it would still be the same, because they all would have been able to serve the same purpose.

He’ll keep Harry distracted. He’ll keep him complacent, as if he’s already won the game.

And then, when the world is lit on fire, when all there is turns to smoke and flame and ash, Tom will turn the world to ice and freeze them all into eternal sleep. This world will be destroyed—the last, he hopes—and it will be destroyed by taking all the destructive forces of a god’s power.

There will be no victors. After all, this is one game that Tom has no intentions of winning.

Perhaps, the Embodiment of Dark thinks, this is the only way he knows how to repent. This is his only _acceptable_ method of redemption—to save Harry Potter.

_Together forever? No. It is only until death do us part._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeey one more chapter to go folks!
> 
> Clearly I've had a long break from this story...and normally long break should = long chapter, but nah the long chapter is actually next chapter. Who knows when that's coming...writing this has really taken a toll on me. I don't like writing high intensity things!! Fluff is my haven!! But I guess I do have to try this out for once.
> 
> Hoped you guys enjoyed Tom's bits C;
> 
> Voting is still going on until I get the next chapter out! You can vote for TMR/HP, LV/HP, TMR/HP/LV, NO FINAL PAIRING, or pretty much any odd request and I'll try to fit it in (just take Happiest Harry ending for example, lol). If you've voted before, you can change your vote too. Just say so! Majority vote wins!
> 
> You can check out the most recent results as the reply to the most recent vote comment. Have fun guys!


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